Falling and Rising
by Leaper
Summary: AU: When a new coach takes over the McKinley Titans at the beginning of the 2009 school year, she expects to win. What she didn't expect was to alter the life course of a sophomore who didn't even play football. How the lives of Shannon Beiste and Dave Karofsky could've intersected differently... and changed for the better. Posted elsewhere as "Making a Difference".
1. Author's Note

Sorry for the length of this note, but this is important.

This fic takes place during seasons 1-3. As such, I thought long and hard about what to do about Sheldon/Shannon Beiste's transgender status, as revealed in season 6. This was an especially difficult dilemma as many of Beiste's strongest and most interesting storylines and themes, which I planned to use in this story, depended on Beiste being a heterosexual woman, as presented in seasons 2 and 3. On the other hand, I did not want to engage in erasure. Further complicating matters was the not uncommon feeling by some viewers and critics that said transgender status was "tacked on" in season 6 out of thin air, without care for previous characterization or storylines, as a way for the Glee writers to pat themselves on the back for being progressive — hardly noble or advancing the cause of transgender inclusion (and, to some, insulting to imply that a woman who doesn't fit the stereotypical view of femininity must want to be a man). Furthermore, the transgender storyline, besides being removed from the time period of the 'fic, is complex and sensitive enough that I didn't think I could do it justice in the space I had.

After long thought, and soliciting opinions from fellow writers (some of whom are themselves transgender), I decided to not directly address Beiste's transgender status in this story, and to use feminine pronouns in order to not complicate the story beyond its intended scope and prevent reader confusion. While I realize that Beiste in S6 claimed to have "always felt this way," it seems to contradict the behavior and storylines of the character we saw previously. If you like, since this is an AU, you could say that Beiste had more doubts and confusion over their gender status than in canon — certainly not unrealistic.

I hope you, the reader, understand my position and reasoning, and that I have not given offense; that is the last thing I wanted to do. Perhaps there is no perfect solution to this dilemma (something to thank the show writers for); I just wanted you to know up front that I did consider this aspect of the character, and did the best I could.

(And in case you're wondering, I came up with this title long after it was too late to change it for the Big Bang I'd originally written this for; I'm experimenting to see if this goes over better.)

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.


	2. Season One

_"A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops." —_ Henry Adams _  
_

 **Pilot**

It all began, as many of McKinley High School's greatest dramatic sagas began, with Will Schuester. The moment the door of Principal Figgins' office shut behind him, he burst out in the full smile he'd been trying to hold back. The money was a concern, of course, but he had a _chance_ now. He had a chance to taste the glory of his own high school days once more. He had a chance to share his love of performing with a whole new generation, and his mind was already brimming with anticipation and plans.

And music.

As he walked down the hall, he found himself humming at first, then singing softly under his breath.

 _There's no room...  
_ _No space to rent in this town..._

As the joy welled up inside him, so did the music.

 _You thought you'd found a friend...  
To take you out of this place..._

A few students passing by looked at him curiously, but Will was practically skipping now, his feet lightened by optimism and hope. He paid them no mind. The music was filling him now.

 _Someone you could lend a hand..._  
 _In return for grace..._

Will's feet slid across the floor, then bopped to instrumentals only he could hear. His joy reaching a crescendo as he reached the chorus, he threw his arms wide open in... well, glee.

 _It's a beautiful d—_

He felt his whipping left arm slam against something solid yet pliant behind him. There was a grunt of surprise, then a shriek. Will whirled around; he saw only a cloud of papers drifting to the floor... and the stairs behind it. The oscillating shriek continued, interrupted sporadically by the muffled "whump"s of a body repeatedly bouncing off of solid ground. Excruciating seconds later, it ended abruptly in a final, painful crash, quickly replaced by a low moan.

Will rushed to the top of the stairs and stared down in horror at the crumpled figure laying on the landing below.

"Oh God. A-are you okay?"

Something that sounded like a half-groan, half-curse echoed up the stairwell.

"I-I'm going to get help! Don't move!"

Words that definitely _were_ a curse responded. Will winced and ran off as fast as his formerly dancing feet would take him.

* * *

"... And I hope you will all stop by my office to sign Coach Tanaka's get well card," Principal Figgins told the hastily assembled faculty meeting. Will pressed himself tighter into the back corner, as if trying to squeeze himself out of existence. "Unfortunately, his accident means he will be unavailable to teach or coach for the rest of the school year. Happily, I have been able to hire a replacement on short notice named Shannon Beiste. She will be taking over all of Coach Tanaka's duties, so please join me in making her feel welcome."

There were some stirrings at the feminine pronoun amongst the gathered staff, but no outright questions or objections. Will sighed in relief, his guilt slightly lessened now that he knew he hadn't just blown the football team's chances for the year.

What he didn't know, couldn't know, was just how much he had changed the destinies of several lives at McKinley High School.

* * *

 **Mash-Up**

 _This is a crazy place_ , Shannon Beiste thought as she stalked down the halls of McKinley High. Not that weirdness was nearly enough to make her lose focus; this was her first major coaching job, and she was determined to make her mark. But her surroundings were certainly not what she'd expected. It was mostly the little things: the weird sign by the shredder apparently left by her predecessor, the missing coffee pot, the cheerleading coach who was obviously nuttier than a heifer with barbed wire underwear. (She had, in fact, just left from a "meeting" with her; it left her feeling oddly... prickly, literally and figuratively.)

Still, she couldn't dwell too much on such trivia — not when the football team needed so much whipping into shape. She had no idea how Ken Tanaka had been leading these boys, but it obviously wasn't up to snuff. The talent was there — barely — but they definitely lacked discipline, drive. And she was determined to give both to them, right down their throats if necessary.

If they were going to be winners, by God, then they better well damn _act_ like winners.

She barely registered the students in the hall as she made her way towards her office, mentally going over her observations of her new team and their potential. She had a lot of decisions to make if she was going to cook this hash Tanaka left her, and it was going to take hard work to—

The next few seconds changed lives, but Shannon Beiste could never remember afterward the entire sequence of events she saw, no matter how hard she tried. It all happened so fast...

She definitely remembered seeing the Slushie, the stream of colored flavored ice frozen in mid-air in her memory. She remembered her quarterback, Finn Hudson, dripping wet, along with one of the cheerleaders who'd been walking with him. She remembered seeing Finn slam the burly boy in the blue shirt against the wall, yelling "What the hell, Karofsky?!" She remembered a few of the words slung back in reply.

"... fifth grade when you made fun of me for getting pubes."

 _Shannon? Bet she has a boy's name because she's got a penis. Ever seen her? She's, like, half-man._

"... It's open season."

 _Oh, didn't you know, Shannon? It's open season on lesbos._

"... Welcome to the new world order."

 _That's the world order, Beasty, and you're on the bottom. Better get used to it._

Why couldn't she remember anything else, the in-between moments? Probably because of her rage.

It was hot, almost beautiful in its purity. It overwhelmed rational thought, cast the world in varying shades of red. She vaguely recalled shoving her way past some of the gathered gawkers, not that she particularly cared at the time. She remembered looming over the three teenagers, interrupting their spat; all three turned towards her, sensing her presence. They stared at her with widening, alarmed eyes; it was almost a point of pride in later years to remember how much she'd intimidated them without saying a word. She sometimes wondered how she'd done it, how she'd looked at that moment.

Beiste definitely remembered how she felt; the anger kept her from breathing normally, instead huffing shallowly through her nose.

"You," she snarled to the boy in blue, Karofsky, through clenched teeth, grabbing him by the collar.

"Me?" he squeaked.

"You're coming with me." She turned to Finn and the cheerleader, the crowd. "Move on!" she yelled. They instantly dispersed, only Finn and his companion daring to take a glance at them as they hurried off. Still clutching Karofsky's shirt in a white-knuckled grip, she almost literally dragged him down the hall to her new office. Once there, she threw open the door and shoved Karofsky towards one of the chairs. He was smart enough to immediately sit as she slammed the door shut, the glass panel rattling with the impact. She stomped to the other side of her desk and threw herself down into her chair, glaring at Karofsky, who was gripping the armrests of his own chair for dear life. "You mind..." She had to catch her breath to continue. "You mind telling me just what the HELL you think you were doing?"

"I..." Karofsky gulped.

"Answer!" she roared, the force of the word visibly driving Karofsky backwards in his seat.

"I... It was nothing!"

 _You're_ nothing _!_

"I _saw_ it. If that was 'nothing,' then I'm a rattler without a bullhorn. You think I'm _stupid_?"

"No, no! It was just... They deserved it!"

 _You deserve it, Beasty. Maybe if you were normal, you'd be worth a shit._

"It was just a little Slushie! Everybody does it!"

 _Nobody likes you, Shannon. Just give up._

"It's not a big deal!"

She slammed both palms against the desk, so hard that it hurt — not that the pain registered. Karofsky jumped in his seat, eyes widening even more. "You play a sport?" she asked.

Karofsky blinked. "Y-yeah, hockey."

"Then here's what's gonna happen: you've got detention with me for a month!"

"A month?!" Karofsky yelped. "For a stupid Slushie?"

"Make that _two_!" she shouted. "After school every day you don't have practice!"

"Th-that's not fair! You can't—!"

"You wanna backtalk me some more? I can make it _three_ if you want!" Silence followed. "Or I can just talk to your coach and have him boot you off the team!"

"Kick me off—?" Karofsky repeated in horror. "Y-you can't...!"

"You wanna try me? Up to you, kid. What's it gonna be: poke the bull, or take it by the horns?" She leaned back and coldly crossed her arms. Karofsky fidgeted.

"I... Detention... I guess..."

Beiste nodded. "Then report here after school. And you _better_ not be late. Now _get out_."

"I..." He stared at her, and apparently decided (wisely) not to argue any more. "Okay." He rose and, with one last frightened look, hurried out of the office as fast as his legs would carry him. The minute he shut the office door behind him, the anger drained away from Shannon Beiste, leaving her... empty.

She groaned, propping her elbows onto the desk and burying her face in her hands. She rubbed at her cheeks and eyes as hard as she could. She'd heard about flashbacks; was this what it was like, for the guys who went to 'Nam? To see the past, to _feel_ it, as sharply as if it were happening right then in front of them?

Shannon Beiste leaned back as far as the chair would allow. She closed her eyes, listening to the distant rattle of the heating/cooling system, and tried to come back to herself.

But Karofsky, the past, danced in her head, literally mocking her. She knew that neither was part of the other, but they still jumbled in her mind, melding into a hazy, taunting mist of memory and reality.

 _McKinley's a crazy place_ , she thought.

Maybe she really did belong here.

* * *

 **Wheels**

"You finished with those basketballs yet?"

Dave Karofsky groaned, tossing a freshly inflated basketball into a net bag with the others. He stared woefully down at the half-full box of deflated balls still at his feet. The locker room had cleared out over an hour ago; up to now, he would've been grateful for company, _any_ company.

But not her. Not the author of his misery.

"What've you been doin' all this time, singing to an armadillo?" Coach Beiste demanded. "I could've had that done and still had time to make waffles!"

"It's not my fault!" Dave whined. "My arms are still tired from retying the jump ropes!"

Beiste snorted. "And you call yourself an athlete," she said contemptuously. "What do the coaches 'round here do with you all day, play patty cake? You've still got baseballs to clean and towels to wash, so you'd better get hustling if you wanna finish before dinnertime. If you're not done by the time I go home, that's gonna be _your_ problem, not mine!"

Dave felt straining inside his chest, the confusion and the anger and the fear pounding pounding pounding at his mind like jackhammer strikes. He could almost _feel_ something in his head snapping. "Why the hell are you on my case like this? What did I do?"

"What did— What did you _do_?!" Beiste loomed over him like a storm cloud. "You _still_ don't get it? I knew bullies were thick-headed, but the ones here take the cake!"

"Me?" Blurs of emotions caused a twenty car pile-up in Dave's brain. "A bully...? No! I told you, that was _payback_..."

"If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it ain't a zebra," Beiste snapped. "Oh, but you're a _good_ _guy_ , right? Lemme ask you: what kind of _good guy_ throws _ice_ in someone else's face?"

"Hey, Hudson _deserved_ it...!"

"See, there's the funny thing: they _always_ deserve it. Every time, no matter who they are." Beiste's lip curled in disgust. "Do you have _any_ idea, what it's like to be bullied like that? What it _does_ to people? Naaah, of course not. I've seen guys like you at every school I've ever been— worked at. Think nobody can touch you."

Dave half-rose from his bench, but found his sanity at the last minute, sitting back down. "Hey, wait, you've got me all wrong—"

"Like I said, I've seen your kind a million times. You wanna be big and bad, all the girls falling all over you and the guys fearing you." Beiste looked into his eyes; he had no idea what she saw there, but she nodded. "You wanna be king of the school, like Hudson—"

"Shut up!" Dave screeched, jumping to his feet. "Don't you _dare_! Don't you dare—! I'd rather fucking _die_! I'll never be like him! _Never_!" His voice reached a strangled pitch at the last word; he could feel the spittle fly from his mouth. By the time he regained awareness, Beiste was staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips. His face burned, his heart pounded, he could feel tears straining at his eyes. Fuck, how could he have lost control like that? In front of a fucking _teacher_ , no less? He planted his ass back on the bench, his shaking fingers scrabbling at a basketball. "'M sorry," he muttered, almost too low to hear. "I'll get this done..."

"Forget it." He looked up again; Coach Beiste was still staring at him. There was something in her examining gaze that seemed... off, somehow? He wasn't sure what it was, or what exactly it meant, but it was there. "I'm not gonna wait around for you, and I'm not leaving you alone either. You don't have to get it all done now; we've got _plenty_ of time together." Dave bit back the remarks, sarcastic and otherwise, that flittered into his brain. "Go home. Finish tomorrow."

Dave got up and shuffled out of the locker room. He didn't look back, but he could feel Coach Beiste staring after him with that same stare. He wondered what she was seeing.

He prayed it was nothing.

* * *

There was _something_ there. That much Beiste was sure of. She tapped a pen against her desk as her memory replayed the past ten minutes in every detail. She'd always had a good head for "recording" events in her mind, a skill that came in extremely handy in scouting and playcalling. Every twitch of Karofsky's face, every change in his voice, every tightening of his muscles... Even if she hadn't been paying attention at the time, she recalled it all in detail now.

She didn't like it when things refused to add up — partly because she liked order and discipline; life was rarely a well-oiled machine that ran smoothly, but she could at least get her hands dirty and tinker with it until it came as close as it possibly could. But it was also partly because, in her experience, when things didn't add up, it was to some extent her fault, for missing something that should've been obvious, for not preparing to the extent she should have, for letting her own biases and assumptions blind her to what was going on right in front of her nose. Those times were rare, but when they did happen, they were disturbing. Shannon Beiste demanded as much of herself as she did her players, and having to reevaluate decisions she'd already made was a waste of time and energy.

So what was going on with David Karofsky?

She figured this would be a straightforward disciplinary action — that there was simply no _need_ to look further. But that, she was starting to realize, was her mistake; she'd forgotten that he wasn't one of her players, and just assumed that what she saw about him was all she had to consider. Stupid, stupid.

Then again, there was another factor involved. Her memory for events was a double-edged sword; she could still remember with crystal clarity the time she accidentally wet her pants in preschool. Then again, that seemed to be the case for many people with worse memories, so maybe that was just basic psychology. She never went for that mental touchy-feely stuff; she was more a physical gal any day.

Whatever the case, there was _something_ about David Karofsky earlier... Something in his eyes, in his voice... Something that _felt_ awfully familiar... Something that clashed badly with the image of him she'd created in her own mind...

She looked down at the pen in her hand; it finally ceased its rapid, repetitive movements. After a moment's consideration, she clicked it, then wrote on a Post-It:

 _Ask for Karofsky records._

Nodding to herself, she tore off the Post-It and stuck it onto her computer monitor. She didn't know how much information she'd be allowed access to, but she got along well with Missy Peterson, Figgins' secretary, so she should be able to get her hands on _something_ — enough to get started, anyway.

Started with what, she had no idea. Not that subsequent events would even have occurred to her then — not in her wildest dreams.

Shaking her head, Beiste wondered if there was something about the athletes at McKinley — maybe because of the school itself. She'd been around the block a few times as an assistant coach and gym teacher, but she'd never met a hot mess quite like the Titans. Hell, even Hudson was kind of weird; when he approached her, asking her if she'd let him join the school glee club, he actually looked afraid that she'd say no — as if she'd mind as long as he didn't miss too many practices or slack off. "S-so you don't think it's... stupid?" he'd asked.

"Stupid?" she'd replied. "Stupid is letting a stallion chase its own tail! Why the hell would I think music is stupid?" Hudson's relief was borderline comical; she shook her head again at the mere memory of it. It was crazy.

 _Then again, we're all a little bit crazy, ain't we?_ Beiste mulled over the thought, trying to find the least little hole in it.

She couldn't.

* * *

 **Ballad**

Dave knocked tentatively on the coach's office door. "Come in," came the muffled reply. The hinges squeaked as he pushed his way inside.

Coach Beiste was sitting at her desk, much as she had when this whole nightmare started. Practically the entire surface was covered in paper: diagrams, notes, letters, scattered and stacked across almost every available inch, even half-covering her computer keyboard. The coach was currently sorting through a few of these papers in front of her; these were bound into a long pale green folder.

She looked up at his entrance; she silently waved him in. Dave shut the door behind him and sat in the visitor's chair (again, the same one he'd sat in when this all began). Coach Beiste was still absorbed in whatever she was reading; she flipped over one of the pages in the folder and raised an eyebrow. He waited silently (having learned very quickly not to interrupt her), watching her eyes dart back and forth, back and forth; it was almost hypnotic.

The silence was almost oppressive. Dave's hands gripped at the armrests. Still Coach Beiste didn't look up. He decided to risk breaking that silence. "Um..." he began. No reaction. "I have hockey practice this afternoon..."

"I know," Coach Beiste finally said, her eyes not lifting off the page in front of her. "That's why I asked you to see me now." Another half minute or so of reading followed. Finally, she shut the folder and looked up at him. She wore an appraising look, her eyes locked on his. Dave shifted in his seat; he preferred the previous silence by a country mile. "You know what this is?" she finally said, placing a hand gently over the green folder.

Dave stared at it, trying to find words or any other sign; his angle was bad, so he saw nothing. "Uh... no?"

"It's your school records," Coach Beiste said, her casual tone clashing madly with the alarm bells going off in Dave's brain. "Grades, disciplinary reports, that kind of thing."

"I..." He stared down at the folder, which suddenly took on a sinister air, as if the pale green was coming from some kind of radioactivity. "Why do you...?"

"Any reason I shouldn't?" Coach Beiste countered. "You _are_ serving detention with me, remember? I gotta know who I'm dealing with."

"I mean..." It was getting harder and harder to speak through his dry throat; he had to swallow some of his pitiful saliva before continuing. "What do you care?"

The coach raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was my job as a teacher and a coach: to care."

"Yeah, well..." Dave shrugged. "McKinley doesn't exactly have a bunch of people who do, y'know?"

Beiste opened her mouth, as if to say something, then merely aped Dave's shrug. "I noticed." The thoughtful, probing look was back. "For example, this whole Slushie thing. It's some kinda tradition, ain't it?"

"I guess."

"But nobody's stopped it?"

"Not really."

Beiste's lips set, hard like concrete. "So I was...?"

"The first one? First I've ever heard of."

"Thought so."

It was almost suicidal, the impulse that overtook him to speak, but hell, he never was that good at impulse control. "You know, a lot of guys get away with a lot worse."

"I figured," was the coach's surprisingly calm reply. "I want to change that." She raised an eyebrow. "Just your bad luck that you're the first step, and caught me in a bad mood." Her hands almost caressed Dave's file, though he could tell it was an absent gesture, busywork for the hands while she thought. She must've noticed the cast of his eyes, because she said, "Wondering what's in your file?"

"Uh..."

Beiste smiled tightly. "Bet all the kids wonder." She picked it up and flipped through it, an act Dave realized was completely unnecessary, considering she'd been reading it just moments before. Also, he couldn't help but notice that she held the folder up high (high enough to now see his name typed onto the tab) so to completely block any of its contents from his view. "It's the usual," her voice said from behind the green wall. "Grades, disciplinary record, that kind of thing." _Wait_ , Dave thought, _didn't she already say that?_ It was like she was emphasizing the kind of information she held on him. He wasn't sure when he began sweating. She snapped the folder shut and put it back down. "It's interesting."

"What is?" His armpits were now slick with moisture; it was almost remarkable how little time it'd taken.

"Your record." Okay, she _had_ to be toying with him now; he almost thought he could see her mouth quirk into a grin for a second before she suppressed it. "It's not what I expected."

"What... did you expect?"

"The usual." She opened the file once more, this time keeping it on the table. Dave's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the pages within, but he could barely read any of it from his angle; it being upside down didn't help. "Bad grades, bad attitude, pattern of detentions like mine." Her eyes fixed on him; this time, Dave could feel the dead seriousness. "And there's nothing like that here. Your grades are pretty damn good, your record's clean, nothing from your teachers but praise..." She leaned back in her chair; Dave couldn't bring himself to feel any relief at the revelation. "What makes a kid like that go and toss ice in someone else's face?"

"I told you—"

"Payback, yeah, I know. But the David Karofsky I see in this file..." She tapped on it with one finger. "... Don't seem like the type to do that, even."

"Maybe I've done lots of shit like that," Dave said, "and I just got away with it." He had no idea where the bravado was coming from, or why he felt the need to break it out in front of a teacher. It felt vaguely like he was putting on a costume or something.

She regarded him for a moment before shaking her head. "No, I don't get that from this file, or from you." Coach Beiste leaned forward, interlacing her fingers in front of her on the desk, right over Dave's file. "The kinda thing you did, it needs something else... something more. A streak of meanness, or maybe anger." She paused for a moment. "What's up, kid?"

Dave fidgeted, an ember of heat stirring in his chest. "Nothing's 'up'."

"See, you think that helps, but it doesn't. It just makes me more suspicious." A shadow of a smile creased her face before she continued. "Look, I've been a teacher and a coach a long time. I think I've got a pretty good handle on kids these days, and you fooled me." He felt like asking what she meant by that, but he didn't. Besides, he had a bit of an inkling anyway. "I don't get fooled too often, but when I do, that interests me. A lot. Plus..." Dave thought he could hear her sigh a little, through her nose. "I do wanna know. I wanna know what makes a kid like this..." She tapped once more on the file. "Do something like that." Dave opened his mouth. "And none of that bullcrap about 'payback'. I know there's more. So what is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dave said coldly, ignoring the stirrings in the back of his brain.

"You keep lying to my face, you're gonna make me annoyed," Beiste snapped back.

"You're not my mom or my counselor," he countered. "You're not even my coach. It's none of your business."

Dave winced as soon as the words left his mouth. That kind of open defiance, and to a fucking _coach_ , no less... But again he was surprised; he only got a wry, tight half-grin in return, then a nod, as if in self-congratulatory confirmation. "Once you got on my radar, you made it my business. And I still own your ass, and don't you forget it. If you know what's good for you..." Somehow Dave got the sense that there was more to that phrase than the mere surface meaning. "... Then you're going to talk to me."

"I didn't think I was in detention to talk."

"No, you're there to do whatever the hell I want you to."

"Look, I just want to finish my detention and get on with my life, okay?" The muffled ringing of the period bell managed to pierce the office door. Dave rose, feeling yet ignoring the relief welling up inside him. "I gotta get to class."

Beiste hesitated, then nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe you'll talk then."

Dave said nothing. He merely grabbed his backpack and left the room as quickly as he was able, trying not to feel the burning of Coach Beiste's eyes on the back of his neck.

* * *

 **Mattress**

Shannon Beiste was constantly reminded that she was a woman in a man's world. Frankly, the whole gender divide — boys in football, girls in ballet or what the hell ever — had always struck her (and her Daddy) as, well, _stupid_. "Shannon," Daddy always told her, "you gotta go out an' take the lizard by the horns in life. Ain't no one gonna bow down t'ya. It's up t'you to out and take what ya want in life, or else yer gonna be as miserable as a cat at a Thursday Baptist barbecue."

It was sound advice she always took to heart, but the testosterone-infused world of male athletics tested her patience and her will. Women's sports were well and good, but she more often found the intensity and drive she related to in the men. But, of course, entering _their_ territory came with its own hazards... Well, _one_ hazard: rampant and idiotic sexism. Because a woman interested in traditionally male activities _must_ want to be a man, right? God, it made her angry enough to send her to the tackling dummies some nights after the boys hit the showers.

Speaking of the showers... One of her major pet peeves, and obstacles, was her inability to just walk into the boys' locker room when she needed to. Having to be so _so_ sensitive all the time grated on her nerves, especially when she saw her male counterparts breezily taking their freedom (for freedom it was) for granted. Especially when the players knew her limitations too, and (she didn't _know_ , but she was _sure_ ) took advantage.

She did the best she could, though; in this sense, her build and attitude helped tremendously. She'd always been "one of the guys," which definitely took some of the edge off of official nervousness, however much it grated on her personally.

This is how she walked into the boys' locker room that afternoon and found Finn Hudson hemmed in by David Karofsky and Azimio Adams. Though Finn was taller than either of his attackers, it was still two against one. They held black markers, and one of them was jeering something about "practice."

The mood was ugly, and strikingly familiar. Adams was having a ball, sure, but Karofsky... There was an edge of malice to him. No, not exactly malice, more like... grim satisfaction.

When she was young, Shannon Beiste often lay in bed thinking about her own tormentors. She thought about slamming semis into their houses, sneaking poison ivy into their backpacks, spreading rumors about them having boy parts (turnabout was fair play, after all).

She never saw her own face during those fantasies, but she imagined they looked much like what Dave Karofsky had on his face at that very moment.

"Gentlemen." All three boys' faces snapped towards her as she folded her arms. "Do we have a problem here?"

"Aw, nah, coach!" Azimio said with a sloppily charming, lopsided grin. "Me an' my buddy Karofsky, we're just havin' a little talk with Hudson! Ain't that right?" He slapped Finn on the shoulder, much harder than necessary.

"Uh..." Finn's eyes flickered from Beiste's face to Azimio's. And this was the young man she was trusting to make the split second decisions necessary on the football field. Terrific. (Then again, she knew better than anyone else the disparities that could exist between normal and football IQs, and was it a good or bad thing that even at a time like this, her own mind shifted almost immediately to the football implications?)

"A talk. Uh huh." She turned to Dave. "You ain't even a member of the football team."

"We're all Titans in spirit," Dave drawled with unexpected wit.

"Right." She stepped forward, deliberately interposing herself between Hudson and his "friends." "We don't have practice today. No need for you to be hangin' around here. Go home, get yourself ready for tomorrow so you can bust your ass. You still need to work on your reads."

Finn nodded rapidly, eager and relieved. "Yes, Coach!" He quickly maneuvered his way around her, not even brushing against Azimio or Dave, and jogged his way out of the locker room.

"Coach—" Azimio began, nervousness creeping over him.

"I'll talk with _you_ first thing tomorrow," Beiste snapped. "Get out of here." Azimio shot a look at Dave that she didn't care enough to interpret before he too left. She spun around on Dave Karofsky, who nearly jumped when she faced him. "Office. Now." In moments, the two were in a familiar state: Shannon Beiste behind her desk, hands folded and glaring at a squirming Dave Karofsky. "You're just not learning," she said grimly. "You're just not learning, are you?"

"Coach, I—"

"You _do_ remember why you're in detention with me, don't you? You don't have _that_ bad a memory, do you? You've been in detention with me for _weeks_ now for attacking my quarterback, and you go and do it _again_ —"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dave burst out. "It's all about fucking Hudson! You just got here, and you fucking love him already! He always gets away with everything—!"

"This isn't about Hudson!" Beiste snapped. "This is about _you_ , and the way _you're_ behaving. I don't know what you've got against him, and I don't care—"

"Like hell you don't—"

"I. Don't. Care." She punctuated each word with a fist slamming against her desk. Dave didn't so much as flinch at a single one; on some level, Beiste couldn't help but be a little impressed, even as she knew it was probably because of his own anger. "If it were my goddamn _long snapper_ you were harassing, I'd be lowering the boom." She shook her head. "I don't _understand_ you, Karofsky..."

"So what? I still don't get why you fucking _care._ I'm not even one of your players!"

"And that matters why...? What the _hell_ is going on at this school?" Beiste demanded. "I don't understand how a kid like you got this way, and neither does Ms. Pillsbury—"

Dave got halfway out of his chair. "You talked to Ms. Pillsbury?" he said, his voice increasing in volume and shrillness with each word. "About me? _Behind my back_?"

"And why the hell not? _You_ weren't going to talk to me. And I never woulda found out what I did from _you_ , that's for damn sure!"

"And what," Dave said in a near whisper, "did you 'find out' about me?"

"That those files I showed you weren't just a buncha bunk. That you're better than... this." She waved a vague hand at him. "Whatever it is that you're doing."

"What the hell do you know about me?" Dave snarled with a violence and rage that would've been chilling had Beiste not been the target of worse from men twice his age and size... and had it not confirmed a few speculative thoughts she'd had ever since she first cracked open Dave Karofsky's files. "You look at my files, you talk to the counselor... Why don't you just _leave me the fuck alone_? Why won't _anybody_ just leave me alone?!"

"Because that's what you want," Beiste said flatly. "You've got problems, mister, and it's messing up my team." She folded her hands. "It's also obviously messing _you_ up something fierce too, and I don't think that should go on."

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Dave shouted at a volume that left Beiste no doubt that it was a complete lie. "Besides, it was Azimio who came up with the idea of getting a little payback on Hudson..."

"Well, then, if he's such a bad influence, you hafta cut him off."

A stunned look broke on Dave's face. "What...?"

"If I ever, _ever_ , see you with him again, or even get a _hint_ that you're so much as _talking_ to him for the rest of the year, I'm extending your detention. And just in case, I'm gonna put the fear of _God_ into him when I talk with him tomorrow. Maybe you'll get in less trouble without guys like him as your friends."

"You can't do that!"

"Why not? Maybe you'd like me to explain to your parents instead what I'm doing with you..."

"That's not fair!"

"Yeah, well, there's a lot about life that ain't fair. You think anything you're doing is fixing that?"

"Fuck, yes! Hudson needs to—"

"Maybe you should think less about Hudson and more about yourself. Maybe an extra month with me will get your mind off him."

Dave boggled. "I thought you just said—"

"I never said I wasn't gonna add to your detention anyway. You ain't learning, remember?" She looked down at her playbook with deliberate slowness. "Now get outta here, I'm busy. Just remember what I told you about Azimio Adams, and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"This is _bullshit_!"

"There's a lot of it goin' around, and most of it ain't comin' from me. Now, unless you want to be in detention for the rest of the school year, I suggest you go home and calm down before we see each other again."

She kept her attention on the playbook, but looked up out of the edge of her vision. Dave Karofsky was standing in front of the visitor's chair, his fist clenched and his face an alarming crimson. After long moments, he finally turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. The glass on the office door rattled when it slammed shut. Beiste sighed, massaging her temples.

The headache still lingered the following afternoon, when Finn Hudson poked his head into her office. "I just wanted to... uh, thank you. For yesterday."

Beiste shrugged. "I demand a lot of you boys," she replied. "Only fair that I look out for you too. What's their problem with you, anyway?"

Finn aped her shrug. "They're kicking me when I'm down."

"Down? For what? Joining the glee club?"

"I dunno if you've noticed, but it's not exactly the cool thing around here." Finn fidgeted. "Anyway... Thanks." He opened the office door to leave.

"Wait a sec." He hesitated, looking back at her. "I was wondering something. What was it that Dave Karofsky was saying to you about 'pubes'...?"

Finn flushed. "Oh, that. It..." He trailed off.

"You make fun of him or something?"

"Y-yeah. He got pubes before anyone else, and I kinda... pointed it out after gym one day to the rest of the guys, and..." He shook his head. "It wasn't a big deal!"

"Sounds like it was a big deal to him."

"It was just a little teasing! And it was a long time ago!"

"Sometimes time don't matter that much," Beiste said coolly (had it really been almost a quarter century since she graduated high school?). "Sounds like he wasn't that popular."

Finn shrugged again. "Yeah, he was kinda quiet after that." _Wonder why?_ Beiste thought. "I mean, some of us picked on him a little sometimes, but we really didn't bother with him all that much. No one did, except maybe Azimio. He's, like, Karofsky's best friend. Maybe his only friend." A stab of guilt ran through Beiste unbidden. "Huh." Finn frowned.

"What?"

"Now that you mention it... He's kinda changed a lot lately. He used to be real quiet..."

"Until he threw that drink on you?"

"Yeah, but even before that, at the beginning of the year... I think I saw it, but I didn't really pay much attention."

"Who has?" Beiste muttered under her breath. It didn't sound like very many people in his life did.

 _What the hell is up with you, Karofsky?_

* * *

 **Hell-O**

She swooped in just too late to stop it, but not too late to grab the perps by the collars.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" she cried.

"C-coach!"

The victims' names, she later learned, were Rachel and Mercedes, along with a face she knew: her former kicker, Kurt Hummel. All three looked cold and miserable, covered in dripping ice.

"You _really_ feel like gettin' on my nerves, don't you, Adams?"

"I'm sorry, Coach!" Azimio cried.

"Yeah, sorry you got caught. I'm gonna make _both_ your lives miserable."

"Why?" the other jock yelped. "They're just—"

Beiste turned her baleful glare on him; he visibly shrunk. "Just what? Nerds? Losers? And you're the big bad jocks just dishin' out a little _justice_?" She gave them both a violent shake; their three victims were starting to let gleeful smirks creep up on their faces. "Principal's office, both of you. And after we have a little talk with Figgins, we're gonna start planning how much you two are gonna _suffer_ at practice this afternoon." She shoved them in the direction of Figgins' office. "March!"

She watched, arms crossed, until Azimio Adams and George Peyton slunk down the hall. One of the three slush victims — Rachel, as it turned out — was babbling some kind of gratitude at her, but she wasn't listening.

She was too busy being relieved that neither of the attackers was Dave Karofsky.

She wasn't quite sure what that meant — was she rooting for the kid somehow? Was she getting emotionally invested? Maybe, maybe not; with the time he'd been spending with her under detention, and the ever-increasing amount she was learning about him (making him look less and less like the cold, ruthless bully she'd expected), perhaps a certain amount of investment was inevitable. Was it just because she was glad that she, as an educator, might've been getting through to him?

Whatever the case, the fact remained that she was actually _glad_ that Dave wasn't involved this time — a fact she communicated with him at detention that afternoon.

"Hey, I'm not _stupid_ ," he replied in an offended tone as he scrubbed shower tiles. "I know you're fucking watching me like a hawk. I'd have to be an _idiot_ to pull something."

"So you're cleaning up your act, huh?" She'd meant to put more sarcasm into her voice, but some of it got lost somewhere between brain and vocal chords.

"Yeah, I am. You think I want to stay in detention forever? I'm trying to stay out of trouble."

Beiste nodded stiffly. "Well, good. You're making a smart decision. Keep it up; I know you're capable."

Dave's mouth opened, then closed, rather like a catfish flopping about on a dock. Beiste had no idea what she said to discombobulate him so, but whatever it was, she was glad she said it. She had a feeling she needed to throw him off his game a little to get through to the kid. Finally, he said something coherent. "Uh... Thanks...?"

Beiste shrugged. "One thing you gotta learn about me: I don't BS. Not enough hours in the day to sling crap." For a while, there was nothing the sound of a brush wetly scraping against tile. She looked about. "Eh, good enough. Do a rinse and you can go for today."

"Yes, coach."

The words carried none of the sarcasm and sullenness she was used to; their absence was actually a little startling. She showed none of it on her face, though — she had long practice keeping a poker face.

Still, in the comfort and solitude of her office, she allowed herself to consider a little hope.

* * *

 **Theatricality**

Shannon Beiste knew the mood of the modern male. Working as she did amongst the testosterone-laden, it was practically required for survival, career and otherwise. Besides, it helped to get into the heads of her boys, if only to know what tactics would work and what wouldn't.

Thus, when Dave breezed by her that afternoon, her hackles immediately rose.

The little things — the clenched jaw, the pale white knuckles, the ruddiness of his face — didn't register in her brain, at least not as individual traits. But put together, and her subconscious mind fed her conscious the complete picture.

Dave Karofsky was in a hell of a mood.

Those same instincts urged her to follow, and she obeyed. She'd learned long ago to trust them, and she was rarely disappointed that she did.

She'd just about turned the corner when she saw the flash of red, heard the clang of metal. She didn't trust her eyes at first; surely those clothes those two kids were wearing were some kind of hallucination? But no, the girl really was dressed in balloons, and the boy really did have on a white wig and a grey suit straight out of a sci-fi movie.

It was the girl who'd slammed against the lockers. The _hell_? Crimson began to creep into Beiste's vision.

The boy was yelling at Dave; Dave was yelling back. As with the first time she'd met Dave Karofsky, it was hard in her current frame of mind to pick out individual words. But something snapped her out of her anger, and it took her a moment to realize what it was: Dave's voice.

It was pinched, strained, harsh. It was as though he was barely able to keep from screaming at the top of his lungs. Now that she looked at him more closely, his entire body was shaking with _something_ he was just barely able to keep suppressed.

That meant trouble, not to mention a few other things she'd have to address. Either way, it was time for her to step in. She strode forward; her footfalls attracted the attention of the three teenagers.

"Is there a problem here?"

Dave didn't say anything, to her mild surprise, but she could almost imagine that she could hear his teeth grinding. Her concern and curiosity were further piqued.

The boy piped up in a high pitched, outraged voice; now that she was closer, she could see that underneath the outrageous get-up was Kurt Hummel. "This... this _animal_ shoved my friend! On purpose!"

"Is that so?" She rolled the words around on her tongue as she stared Dave down. He was breathing heavily, still looking like he was ready to pop. He didn't even have a word in his own defense. This was not good, not at all. "I'll take care of this," she said. "You two get to class."

"Thank you," the girl said, glaring at Dave, who barely seemed to even realize she existed — odd, considering he'd been pushing her and yelling at her less than a minute before.

She nodded at them both, then shoved Dave hard in the small of the back. He stumbled forward, but didn't look back or speak so much as a syllable, not even when they arrived at her office and she pointed to the visitor's chair. He just sat and stared at nothing in particular while Beiste threw herself behind her desk.

"Cleaning up your act, huh?" she said acidly. "You'd have to be an idiot to pull something, huh?"

"I lost my temper. I'm having a bad day," Dave said sullenly. "What, you never have one of those?"

"Oh, I've had more bad days than you've been alive, kid," Beiste snapped back. "But see, I learned long ago that I couldn't take my bad days out on other people." She paused. "Seems you haven't learned that lesson yet. Makes me think all that time I've spent with you trying to pound that into your skull's been wasted." She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "So you've moved on from Hudson, huh?" Silence. "What'd those kids do to you? They bully you too?" She snorted at the very thought. Dave remained silent and completely still; not even his eyes moved. Beiste wasn't even sure if he was even blinking. Something stirred in her gut. "C'mon, let's hear it. What'd _they_ do to deserve what you were doin' to them?"

"That stupid dance thing!" Dave burst out, so violently and suddenly that Beiste started a little, to her annoyance. Once she regained her wits, she frowned.

"What?"

"That _fucking_ Madonna song!" Now he was halfway out of his chair, his eyes wide, his arms waving around. The animation was so abrupt that Beiste was almost getting dizzy.

"What about it?" she asked; she could hear the note of puzzlement in her own voice.

"It was... It was _stupid_! It was dumb!"

"And that meant they deserved to be pushed around because...?" The puzzlement deepened. She vaguely remembered that performance; now that she thought about it, Kurt was now one of Sylvester's new cheerleaders. It was raucous and toe-tapping, as Sylvester's performances usually were, but she couldn't think of anything about it that would cause this kind of reaction...

"It was _stupid_!" Dave shouted for the third time. He looked on the verge of pacing; it was only by a moment of self-realization passing over his face, and obvious effort, that he sat down again. "It was stupid and fa—" He swallowed. "I hated it."

There was a moment of silence. Then: "I have _no_ idea how _any_ of that makes _any_ sense," Beiste said bluntly. She leaned forward. "Explain it to me." The silence deepened. "C'mon, Dave," she said, her voice softening purely against her conscious will. Her anger had long since petered out. In its place was confusion and... concern. Huh. "Tell me what's going on."

Dave stared at her blankly for a moment, then crossed his arms. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.

Beiste waited for a full minute more of silence before deciding that she wasn't going to get anything more from him. "Fine," she said. "Then consider your detention extended. Since you ain't talkin', get out. I'll see you tomorrow."

Dave got up and shuffled out of the office, shoulders slumped. Beiste sighed, leaning back in her chair. She began wondering if _she_ had something to do with this — if somehow, his detention with her and her approach to him were pushing him somehow to some kind of breaking point.

She shook her head, her upper lip curling in disgust. That old specter of self-doubt... She'd worked hard, damn hard, to get over that... To feel its chilly touch again was discomfiting. Plus, it did absolutely nothing to help her figure out what was going on with Dave Karofsky — quite the opposite, in fact.

An inkling flitted through her head, a bare wisp of an idea tickling at the edges of her brain. It was tantalizing... and disturbing, for some reason she couldn't (or didn't want to) comprehend.

But the moment she focused her attention on it, it vanished like fog. She swore under her breath and rubbed her temples.

It was going to be one of _those_ years, wasn't it?

* * *

 **Funk**

The sound of pen scratching against paper was almost soothing. Dave's tongue darted out of his mouth, licking his lip as he paused to consider. Then the writing continued. Beiste glanced up from her desk. She'd eased up on the slave labor a little this week, especially with a round of exams coming up. She'd expected him to need the time, but damn if he wasn't blazing through the stack on the table at a rapid clip.

Curious, she got up and glanced over his shoulder. It was math, an open pre-calculus textbook (wait, wasn't he a sophomore?) in front of him as he wrote tightly woven series of numbers that frankly made her dizzy.

"How's it going?" she said, softly so as not to startle him.

"Okay," he said, not looking up or slowing his writing down in the slightest.

"This all you got?"

"Yeah. Except for some reading I have to do for English."

"Mmm." She watched for a moment more before speaking again. "Not having any trouble?"

"Nope." He finally looked up at her, frowning. "What, now I'm stupid?"

"I didn't say that..."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"I was just askin' because I wanted to know if you needed help. Simmer down, kid; the world's not out to get you."

"Yeah, right," he muttered, returning to his homework.

Beiste slammed her open palm onto the paper; Dave's head jerked up. "Whaddya mean by that?"

"Huh?"

"What you said just now. What did you mean?"

Dave shifted in his chair. Beiste didn't move or even change her expression. She simply stared at him, firmly but without anger, until he finally answered. "I was just sayin' that the world is a hellhole." He hesitated, looking up at her, as if expecting her to question him further. When she didn't, he continued. "It's random, unfair, and it just..." His eyes flickered downward, but his chin was held high. "It beats people down."

"Like you?" Beiste asked quietly.

Dave just stared down at her hand over his homework before he replied. "That's just the way life works. You gotta be strong, take what you want, let the weak get... get trampled over. Eat or be eaten. It fucking sucks, but you gotta do what you gotta do." Beiste quietly noted that he didn't answer her question... or did he?

"See, I see it differently. I think livin' life like that is a way to flush the world faster down the toilet. Steppin' on other people to lift yourself up..." She swallowed. "That just makes everyone miserable."

"Yeah?" Dave sneered. "So what am I— people supposed to do, then, huh? Just say 'thank you, may I have another' when jerks like Hudson do it?"

"Like I said, you're too obsessed with Hudson. You gotta let that go, Dave. You gotta live your own life."

"Whatever." His gaze returned to her hand. "Mind if I finish my homework now?"

"What? Oh. Yeah." She moved her hand, and he took up his pencil again. She watched him pick up from where he left off, scribbling a 7 at the end of a formula. The pencil tip dug so deeply into the paper that she was surprised it didn't tear.

"I'm not stupid," he muttered.

"Didn't say you were."

"This school fucking sucks anyway. The classes are way too easy."

"I'll take your word for it."

The pencil dropped from his fingers as he looked up at her again. "Are you making fun of me?"

"You think I'd do that?" she asked, a note of unintended sadness creeping into her voice. She wondered if he'd heard it. There was a slight hesitation before he replied, but that could've meant nothing. Or everything.

"I'm not stupid," he said petulantly. "Just 'cause I'm a 'puckhead' doesn't mean I'm stupid." She had a question (more than one, actually), but she let him vent. "That's fucking stereotyping. You stereotyping me, coach?" he asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Oh, I think I know a little about stereotyping," she said coldly. "I've always looked like this. I've always been interested in football. How do you think _that_ went over with the girls in my high school, huh?"

Dave blinked, startled, as if he'd never even considered the possibility that Coach Beiste was ever a teenager. "I... Uh..."

"I've been sneered at. I've been stereotyped. Don't _ever_ think I don't know how that feels. But I would never have gotten where I am if I'd been bitter, if I'd lashed out or just buried myself on the prairie like a rabid gopher. You know what all that teasing did? Besides make me mad as hell?" Dave shook his head. "It made me _motivated_. I was gonna show all those bitches that I was worth something, that I was going places. And you know what? I think I've done damn good for myself. I'm doing what I love, which is a lot more than most people can say. And if they don't like it, they can go to hell. People aren't stereotypes, Dave, and stereotypes aren't people. I've had people tell me I was too much like a man all my life." She paused for a moment (she had no idea why). "But if I let 'em run my life, I wouldn't be here coaching. And I like it. That's all that matters." The words that had been backing up in her brain like a logjam finally ran their course. Now she could see that at some point, Dave's eyes shifted downward again, back towards the papers in front of him. "Did I bore you, Karofsky?" she snapped.

"Huh?" He met her eyes again; it was only then he saw the distant, faraway quality to them, as if he'd been deep in thought... But that moment was gone so quickly she started to doubt her senses. Between eyeblinks, he was focused on her fully. "Sorry, Coach. No, I was listening. I was just..." He licked his lips. "Um... Do you mind if I get back to my homework? I want to finish before I go."

Something in her demanded that she press the issue... But press what? How? Did she really have any idea of what she was stumbling into here? So instead, she just nodded. "Go ahead."

With only a nod in return, he went back to his papers as Beiste trudged back to her desk. As she sat, pretending to go over game notes, she stared at the broad back of Dave Karofsky.

She would've given a lot to know what was going through his mind at that moment...

* * *

 **Journey**

Shannon Beiste was startled out of her concentration by a rapid knock. She looked up to see Dave poking his head into her office. "Hey, Coach. I finished with the equipment room, and I changed the air fresheners."

"Good," she said as she put down her pen. "C'mon in for a sec." She waved him in; he dutifully entered and sat in the visitor's chair. "You know this is your last day of detention with me."

"Yeah," Dave replied with a bare, pressed smirk, as if trying to hold back a fully blossoming smile of relief. "Though it kind of sucks that it's mostly because it's almost summer."

"You saying you didn't deserve it?" To his credit, Dave didn't reply. "Well, you're done now. You must be relieved."

"Are you kidding? F— Hell, yeah. Though..." He drifted off with a half grin.

"Though...?"

"I kinda got used to the schedule, y'know? Maybe I don't know what to do with my summer now."

Beiste couldn't help it: the tone of voice, the cheeky grin... She laughed. "I'm sure you'll figure something out. And hey, I'll do you a favor: your ban on your friend Azimio is now lifted. Bet he'll be glad to..." Her smile vanished as Dave's did; she watched him slump a little in his chair. "What's the matter?"

"Az... We... He and I..." He sighed. "We're not exactly... friends anymore."

Feelings warred within her like armies: guilt, sorrow, relief, satisfaction... "Oh. I..." She stopped herself there. Was she actually about to justify herself to a student? Why the heck would she do _that_? She was the educator, the coach; what she says goes. If she decided that the best thing for a student was to get away from a bad influence, well, she shouldn't feel any guilt about it. Not one bit. So why did she? "He knew that I told you to stay away from him..."

"Yeah, well..." Dave sighed again, more of an exhale this time. "I guess he decided I was more trouble than it was worth. Six years, just like that..." His face set, yet even that was a mere shadow, a parody, of the tough, hard Karofsky. "Well, fuck him. If he's okay with abandoning me like that after all this time, he was a shit friend anyway."

"I completely agree," Beiste said softly. "What about your other friends? Do they—?" Seeing Dave's face fall at the question, hearing the silence, told her more than volumes — it told her entire libraries. "Well." She cleared her throat. "Maybe this summer you should think about things. Figure out something to do besides push people around. Maybe then you'll have more friends."

Dave laughed bitterly. "Kinda blunt, huh? Ms. Pillsbury would yell at you if she could hear you."

Beiste shrugged. "Like I said, I don't mess around. Life's too short for that. And honestly... You can be so much _more_. You've got a lotta potential, Dave, and it just makes me _mad_ to see you waste it. I should be seeing more of it than a few little flashes here and there. Let that light shine, kid, 'cause it's as bright as anythin'."

Dave's eyes had been widening with every word. As soon as she finished, he laughed, this time in genuine mirth. "I've changed my mind. Ms. Pillsbury would _love_ you. That's _exactly_ the kind of sappy crap she'd say."

"You think I'm joking?" Beiste asked with a flat voice and flat glare. Dave's laughter strangled in his throat. "I don't appreciate being laughed at."

"But... All that stuff you said... It's just..."

"When are you gonna learn that I mean what I say? If you're gonna get one thing from this semester through your thick skull, it'd better be that, or the rest of your time at this school's gonna be _hell_ as long as I'm around." She waited, continuing her glare. When Dave failed to speak or make any more smart remarks, she continued. "Maybe you're used to people BSing you, and if that's true, that's damn sad. But I don't believe in it. Waste of everybody's time. So when I tell you something, you believe it."

Dave nodded rapidly; she got the impression it was despite himself. "But..." A raspy sound came out of his throat before he was able to say, "Why?"

"Why not?" Beiste replied with a casual shrug. "What, I'm just supposed to ignore you? I got an eye for potential. It's served me well in football." She grinned. "Call it women's intuition if ya want."

Dave's jaw almost brushed his chest. "I..."

Beiste raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem? What should I be telling you? That you're a hopeless basket case? What good would that do either of us?"

"I... I just..."

 _Won't do much good to let him stew,_ Beiste thought. She waved a dismissive hand. "Get out of here already, Dave. Enjoy the weather. Just think about what I said, all right? You don't need to be anyone you don't want to be. In fact, you're better off if you're not." Nobody moved. "Well? Git! I've got work to do, and I can't concentrate with you gawping at me like a prize sow at a root beer plant." Still he didn't move. "Vamoose!" she roared.

Dave jumped to his feet at the shout. "O-okay." He covered the distance between chair and door in just two steps. Then he yanked the door open... and paused. Beiste's brow furrowed, her mouth opening to bark at him again, when he turned to her. "Thanks, Coach," he said quietly. Only then did he disappear from the room, the door snapping shut behind him.

Beiste stared at the closed door for a long minute, her mind replaying Dave's words, Dave's face — every tiny detail of those two little words. Finally, she nodded, then returned to her work.


	3. Season Two, Part One

**Summer 2010**

Having grown up in the worst of Southern summers, Shannon Beiste had little trouble with Ohio's (though winter was another story; the bus became her best friend during those months). Still, that didn't mean she was invulnerable to the heat; another glance at her steadily climbing electric bill drove her from her apartment in search of cooler pastures.

Lima was still unfamiliar to her, but on a lazy Saturday with nothing to do, she let her car and wanderlust take her where they would. Starbucks was a possibility, but she hated just sitting around doing nothing. The mall at least had the benefit of wide open spaces, but still not ideal. Ice skating rink... Now there was an idea.

The cool breeze that enveloped her as she walked in caused her to sigh in blissful relief. It'd been a long, long time since she'd skated, she mused as she rented a pair of skates, but what the hell; she'd use those walker things if she had to. She had pride, but it didn't rule her every minute either.

As she approached the rink, she saw there was a good crowd there already, about twenty people. Echoes of shrieking kids rang off the ceiling, and the back of an unbalanced young woman banged against the plastic shielding near Beiste's face as she struggled to keep upright.

Some of the skaters awkwardly shuffled across the ice, while others glided around like they were born with blades strapped to their feet. One in particular caught Beiste's eye: a broad figure in a green t-shirt and jeans, casually weaving amongst the crowd with astonishing grace and ease for such a large frame. The man (she could see now the figure was male) did a large, lazy spin, then took a quick swipe with the hockey stick he was carrying. Then he was back amongst the skaters, winding his way through the ever-shifting crowd without ever coming within two feet of another skater, no matter where their speed and direction. Beiste nodded to herself approvingly.

Finally, the man turned towards her, and she started. "Dave?"

Dave Karofsky's eyes shifted towards the sound of his name, then widened when he saw the source. "Coach!" He skated to the side of the rink, the two facing each other on either side of the plastic. "Uh, hi," he said, nearly fidgeting with awkwardness. She couldn't help but wonder if every student-teacher interaction outside of school was like this... or if their particular circumstances was responsible.

"Dave," she said calmly.

"What're you doing here?"

Beiste raised an annoyed eyebrow at him. "To skate. Why else would anyone come here? Just 'cause I like football—"

"I didn't mean anything by it!" he said in a mild panic.

She sighed. "Calm down, Dave, it's fine." She quickly hurried on to the first question she could think of. "What about you? Come here often? I forgot you played hockey."

"Yeah. I like keeping in practice. Plus, summer... Y'know."

"I do." A group of three boys speed-skated past Dave's back. "You got some good moves there, kid. Good instincts for dodging."

Dave blinked at her, then shrugged modestly. "Yeah, I guess."

Beiste tapped a finger on the clear plastic barrier, biting her lower lip in thought. "You ever considered playing football?"

Dave blinked again, making him look rather like a befuddled owl. "Me?"

"Why not? You've got size, you've obviously got skill... Titan football could always use more men like that."

"You sure this isn't just an excuse to keep an eye on me?" Dave sneered.

Beiste gave him a small, sly grin. "Not 'just'. Didn't I tell you I mean what I say? C'mon. We'll talk about what kind of role you might play on my team. I'll buy you a soda."

Dave hesitated, but five minutes later, the two were sitting at a table, Pepsis in front of them. "You really think I can make it onto the football team?" There were a few shades in Dave's voice that Beiste could pick out: curious, skeptical... Hopeful? For what? She wasn't sure.

"I don't see why not." She sipped at her soda. "Before we get into that, why don't you tell me what you've been doing so far this summer?"

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I wanna make sure you've been keeping out of trouble. And if you're gonna be on my team, I need to get to know you and what makes you tick. It's all about team harmony — you guys have to trust each other, or all my plays and strategy won't mean jack. You should know that from hockey." Dave responded with a reluctant nod. "And I know there's more to you than the sullen kid I had to watch over last year, and I want to get to know that Dave, 'cause that's the Dave I want out on the football field." She fixed him with a friendly, but firm, stare to muffle any further protest, and from the silence on the other end of the table, it seemed to work. "So what've you been doing with your summer?"

"Well..." Dave took a deep breath, as if preparing to jump off the high board with dumbbells tied to his ankles. "I got a job at this store one of my mom's church friends owns. Stock shelves, inventory, stuff like that."

"What kind of store?"

Dave grimaced. "Christian bookstore. But she's cool as a boss, and the pay's actually not bad. Been playing video games on the weekends..." He shrugged. "Just another boring summer."

"So no hobbies? Nothin' you actually like doin' for its own sake? Nothin' you were just itching to get to once school got out? C'mon, kid, nobody's _that_ boring. Spill."

"Well..." Dave shifted uncomfortably. "I've been doing some tutoring."

"Doing some tutoring...?" She was smart enough not to finish the sentence out loud, but the shade of meaning instantly seemed to come to Dave.

"Yeah, doing, not getting. I thought I said I wasn't stupid."

"I still haven't said you are," Beiste said calmly. "But see, that's what I was talkin' about right there, about there being more to you. I wouldn't have expected it of you — not 'cause you're stupid, but because I wouldn't have thought a kid who tossed Slushies at his classmates would care enough to do it. You proved me wrong, just like I knew you would."

Dave turned red and began shaking his head rapidly, as if denying his own revelation. "It's just a couple of kids at my church. Seventh graders. And I needed the money."

Beiste smirked. She'd let him have his excuses for now. "Then tell me about it. How you're teachin' those kids."

"Why?"

"Why not? I might be able to give you a few ideas, earn you a few extra bucks. And it'll give me an idea of how to teach _you_. So go ahead."

"O-okay." Dave took a deep breath. "Tyler's okay; he just needs review to make sure he's paying attention. But Jessica's still having some trouble with basic concepts, so I decided I'd..."

As time passed, sentences became longer and Dave's entire body grew more relaxed. He began raising his voice when the occasion demanded it, gestured to make a point, even laughed at himself when he mentioned a time Tyler found a mistake in one of Dave's example problems. It was as though life were slowly being injected into Dave Karofsky — a process Beiste found fascinating. In fact, they spent over half an hour at that table, Dave talking and Beiste listening, a fact that later surprised them both.

It was a mildly odd sight to outsiders: the burly teenager and equally burly adult, the former talking with animation about long division and adding fractions while the latter listened with nods and a small, oddly self-satisfied smile.

If Dave had noticed that, he might've questioned that, and maybe things would've been somewhat different from there on in. But he didn't, and maybe things wouldn't have changed even if he had. So maybe the point was moot.

But that summer afternoon was anything but moot.

* * *

 **Audition**

"Coach?"

Shannon Beiste tamped down her annoyance, barely stopping her hand from crumpling an important stack of papers into a small wad. A new year was always a chaotic time for teachers (then again, what time wasn't?), and this year was no exception, between forming the new team, dealing with the seniors who had left, dealing with the freshmen who were coming in, and on and on — and that wasn't even counting the constant interruptions from nervous athletes, whining wannabes, and office politics (she'd expected Sue Sylvester to be her usual looney tunes self, but what was with Schuester?!). Was the entire _world_ conspiring to keep her from finishing her work in peace?!

Her annoyance faded when she saw where the voice had come from. Dave Karofsky was tentatively peeking around the edge of her office door, as if he were her kid, being summoned into the study for punishment.

"What, you volunteering for more detention?" Beiste asked with a smirk.

"What?" Dave's face drew tight with horror. "No, no, I—"

"Dangit, don't you know a joke when you hear one? Come on in." She waved him in heartily; he slouched in and sat in what she'd once overheard him call "the hot seat". "So how was your summer?"

Dave shrugged. "Okay. I finished my reading last week."

"Cutting it close, but at least you did it. So are you here because...?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Can I try out for football?"

"What about hockey?"

"I'm not playing hockey this year."

"Really?" Beiste couldn't help the frown that settled on her face. "I thought you liked playing hockey."

"I do... Did. But I want to play football. You wanted me to try out, didn't you?"

"I did. It's just I got the impression that you weren't that interested."

"I changed my mind." Dave bristled. "I'm allowed to do that, right?"

"Sure, sure. Then I'll see you this afternoon."

Indeed she did — and she saw more than she expected. As was the norm in high school, the McKinley Titans football team was at the top of the social heap, so tryouts were well attended with new students, washouts from previous years hoping to make a comeback, JV members vying for promotion, and, of course, last year's team, who knew all too well that they were on the edge of being cut, no matter how good they were the previous year.

"This is not a fair world!" she barked to the gathered young men. "And the football field is _definitely_ not fair! It'll chew you up and spit you out like a wolverine with scabies! This is a 'what have ya done for me lately' sport, and I'm asking every one of you: what have you done for me lately?!" She barely saw some of the teenagers she was addressing exchange nervous glances. "Some of you know what you're going to have to do to impress me. They're the lucky ones. The ones who don't, you'd better ask, or you're gonna be in a _world_ of pain." More nervous glances... Except, Beiste noticed, on Dave. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes almost thousand yard empty, his face hard. She should've been impressed, she supposed, at this display of toughness, but instead, all she felt was vaguely worried. "Oh, yeah, and we got pizza." A few of the boys broke out into smiles, but those smiles quickly disappeared when they saw hers: mean and toothy. "But that's for later. Here's the assignments: first we're gonna see how well you tackle..."

What followed was what Shannon Beiste liked hearing on the football field: impacts, grunts, groans, cursing. The field was littered with bodies, sweat flying around like rain. God, it was glorious; it sent her pulse racing. She almost forgot about Sylvester and Schuester, watching these young men push themselves to the breaking point at her command...

Then there was Dave. His stoicism hadn't declined one inch since the beginning, ignoring the puzzled glances some of the vets cast his way, especially Finn Hudson. He wasn't the fastest runner, but he ran the hardest, his fists and teeth clenched. He wasn't the strongest tackler, but he slammed against the dummies like they'd massacred his family. He wasn't the most deft dodger or thrower, but he barreled across the field like a maniac, and threw so hard that some of the other attendees refused to receive for him anymore.

Beiste was surprised — both at Dave's intensity and her reaction to it. Again, she should've been pleased; the kid was a shoe-in for the team in _some_ capacity, just as she'd thought he'd be. But there was something about the hard gleam in his eye, the harshness of whatever force that propelled him to go harder and harder, faster and faster... She was teetering on the edge of stepping beyond worry straight into concern... And she couldn't even think of a way to explain why — not even to herself, never mind to someone else.

The closest she came to addressing her concerns (she'd regret not doing more in later months) was approaching Dave after tryouts were over. He hadn't even looked the slightest bit queasy after his pizza and wind sprints (what the hell was in that kid?), and almost seemed disappointed when she announced that they were done. "How'd I do, Coach?" were the first words out of his mouth as soon as he saw her.

She nodded. "Not bad," she admitted. "I'll have to look over my notes, but I think you've got a good shot." Dave looked pleased... No, not even quite that. Almost... relieved? "I gotta say, Dave, you were... something out there."

"Yeah?" Now that was pleased.

"Yeah. You were giving 110% out there, and I gotta admire that," she admitted.

"Just showin' you what I got. I proved you right, what you said during the summer about how I'd be good at this, right?"

"Not quite." Dave opened his mouth, perhaps to question, but she talked over him before he could get anything out. "You play hockey like that? 'Cause I didn't hear about any kind of performance like that." _And I would've, if that were your usual..._

"Not really," Dave said with a shrug.

"So today...?"

"I really want on the team," he said simply.

"Why the change of heart?"

"I just thought about it a lot after we talked at the rink. I decided I wanted to rebuild my rep."

"Your rep?" Beiste asked with raised eyebrow. "From what I've heard," she said bluntly, "you didn't have much of one. So what're you trying to rebuild?"

Dave deflated. There was no better word for it — he deflated. The hard gleam was gone, the rock hard shoulders now soft; _now_ he looked more like the teenager she'd seen in detention for a good chunk of last year. "Nothing," he muttered. He picked up his towel. "I'm gonna shower. See you later, Coach." He practically sprinted off, almost faster than his actual tryout sprints. Beiste watched him disappear into the school building, her gnawing worry deepening.

After that, events sort of... spiraled out of control. After she calmed down a little, she was disturbed at how easily she'd lost control (after all, kicking a kid off the team, especially her starting quarterback, was a pretty severe step to take) — and over a single word, at that. By now, she had no doubt that Hudson hadn't meant to call her "dude", so why did she react so badly? Even if her temper was frayed by dealing with Sylvester's and Schuester's antics, even if she'd been reminded of past humiliations... It was still just a single word. That had been all it took to send her over the edge.

Weakness had no place on the football field, or in life. Being so easily riled only showed your enemies how much power they had over you, and did nothing to advance your own agenda. Allowing one of _her_ athletes (because she _owned_ them, no doubt about it) to cause her to snap like that...

That couldn't stand. Not at all.

A rapid knocking on the office door broke her out of her introspection (perhaps for the best, considering the dark paths her mind was beginning to tread). "Come in," she said, straightening her back and wiping her face with a tissue just to make sure.

Dave Karofsky entered in what was rapidly becoming a regular occurrence in Beiste's mind. This time, though, he was grinning from ear to ear, nearly bouncing on his feet with each step. "Is it true?" he asked eagerly. "You kicked Hudson off the team?"

Normally, she wouldn't have taken kindly to one of her athletes (and Dave was officially one of hers as of 24 hours ago) questioning her on disciplinary matters, but this ball of sunshine and joy was so startling that she could only say tentatively, "I did..."

"Yes!" Dave did a fist pump. "Thank you so, so much, Coach! I'm gonna work ten times harder now that I don't have to have that douchebag around me..."

"So you were gonna slack off if Hudson were still on the team?" she growled, her gumption quickly returning. Dave's eyes widened in horror, and she felt a warm satisfaction in her chest. It was always nice to know that she could still intimidate with the best of them.

"No, no! I was just saying that whatever Hudson did, I'm sure he deserved whatever you gave him."

"We've talked about this, Dave. You've got to let go with whatever you've got with Hudson. It's not healthy."

"I don't have a... I'm working on it, I swear."

"Good." Beiste rubbed her forehead wearily. "I've got enough to deal with this year without having to play nanny all over again."

The last of Dave's good mood vanished; the change was actually visible. He glided into the visitor's chair. "Is this about what's going on with Coach Sylvester and Mr. Schuester?" he asked, his voice so soft and gentle that it startled Beiste more than if he'd shouted directly into her ear at the top of his lungs.

"How do you know that?" She winced as soon as she finished speaking; she should've denied, stonewalled... She was his coach, she had that right. Damn, was she thinking clearly _at all_? What the _hell_ was wrong with her?

Dave shrugged. "Cheerios talk. A lot." He shook his head. "It's not right. I can't believe they're doing that to you. Well, I guess I'm not surprised at Coach Sylvester; she's batshit crazy. But Mr. Schuester...? I thought he was nice. Or at least normal."

Beiste blinked, rapidly. "I..." She had to swallow before she could go on. "This isn't your business, kid. I can handle myself."

"But you shouldn't have to!" he burst out. "Not from other teachers! I thought that kind of shit stopped after high school!"

Beiste smiled tightly, wryly. "Kid, you're in for a big surprise in a couple of years. Some people never grow out of it." She regarded him for a long moment; Dave was leaning forward in his seat, forearms on his knees and hands clenched together, his face open and earnest... "You know, don't you?" she said softly. "What it's like."

Dave's head bowed. "A little," he said, his voice somewhat muffled. There was another long moment before he continued. "It wasn't just Hudson, and it wasn't everyone, but... It was enough. More than enough." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hated it. I hated everything. I didn't want to be weak anymore."

"It's not always about being weak," Beiste said gently. "It's not always about you."

"I know, but... I wanted it to stop." He leaned back in his chair, head tilted towards the ceiling; what was he seeing there? Beiste's instincts said it would've told her a lot if she could see it too. "At first, I was sort of a nobody, but that was okay; I'd rather be ignored than teased any day. But then I got my growth spurt, and suddenly I was just _big_ instead of fat, and I realized... I could play sports, get accepted. I could get some payback and not be afraid. And when I finally did it... There were a bunch of guys who were slapping me on the back and saying how awesome it was..." He looked back towards Beiste; his eyes were shining — not with tears, but with sparkling memories of a joy he never realized existed. "I was kinda popular, for the first time. People knew my name, and they _liked_ me. Or liked what I did, anyway."

 _Huh. He actually realized that. Hm._

"So I thought, why not? Why not be that guy, dish it out instead of taking it? Why couldn't I be accepted for the first time for once?"

"That's really important to you, isn't it?" Beiste said.

"Yeah. Of course."

"Seems it's _really_ important to you, though."

Dave rolled his eyes. "Uh, duh. Isn't that what all teenagers want?"

"But you..." Beiste tapped a finger on her desk thoughtfully. "You want it more. Why is that, Dave?"

He didn't answer. And that, in of itself, was a _very_ interesting answer.

* * *

 **Britney/Brittany**

Shannon Beiste wiped the sweat from her brow as the afternoon sun cast the field in a verdant glow. This was her territory, this was her battlefield: one hundred yards of war, and she was a general, sending her men out into mortal combat, where only the strong survived.

But like any good general, she had to know herself how to fight her own battles, which was one reason she was out here today. It'd been too long since she'd been able to ply her trade personally; she relished every opportunity she got.

"Um..." Dave's voice drew her out of her personal metaphor. "I'm here. What did you want?"

"I asked you here because I wanted to see if you wanted to make a deal," she said, drawing herself up.

"What... kind of deal?"

"You're on my team now. You know I take an interest in my players. You thought I was in yer face before, you ain't seen nothing yet."

Dave shuffled his feet nervously, his cleats tearing up the turf. "Yeah...?" he said tentatively.

"But I think there's a way we can work this so we both come out ahead." She examined his face; he betrayed nothing. Good, but expected; she had a feeling there was a lot he was hiding that she barely scratched the surface of. "See, I think you still got a ways to go as a football player. You're still too hockey — too much tricky, not enough direct."

"Yeah?" She could sense interest perking in his eyes, just as she knew it would.

"Yeah. Football's a completely different animal; you gotta take a different approach. Lemme show you." With a roar, she turned and slammed into one of the tackling dummies with a speed and savagery that made Dave jump. In seconds, she'd shoved the dummy five yards back. Once it reached the 45 yard line, she stopped and turned back to Dave. "Offensive linesmen have to be a wall," she said calmly, without a hair out of place or even breathing hard. "It's a human demolition derby out there, Dave, and you're still swerving to avoid impact."

"There's plenty of impact in hockey too," he said, almost petulantly.

"Maybe, but my plays depend on everybody doing their job. If even one guy lies down — even if he's the freaking kicker..." The mention of the position got Dave's attention for some strange reason, but she continued anyway. "... The whole thing could fall apart. So, if you're willing, I'm gonna teach you. Give you some personal training."

Dave's mouth opened, then closed again, then opened again. Words finally came out after another attempt. "Do you... do this with all your players?"

"Of course not."

"Then... why me?"

"Why not?" She straightened her spine and crossed her arms, daring him to answer, whether smart-ass or serious. When he didn't, she nodded; the kid definitely could learn if he was given proper motivation. "You got potential. I'm a teacher and a coach. My literal job is to tap that potential and turn it into somethin' more solid. So why wouldn't I?"

"But there's dozens of other guys on this team. You have a new quarterback! Don't one of them need it a lot more than me?"

"If they do, I'll take care of them in my own time. There's habit number one we gotta break you of, Dave: too worried about other people. You just worry about yourself. Now the only question left is: are you willing to put in the work that I'm about to demand of you?"

Dave hesitated, but she could see warring impulses in his eyes. "What kind of work?"

She nodded. "Reasonable question. I want to make sure you're prepared for the game; most of your teammates have been playing in some form since they were little. The more you know what you're in for, the less chance you'll embarrass me and the team come game time. Lemme show you something." She crouched down. "Come at me."

"What?"

She tossed a football at Dave's feet. "Set up at the 45. Pretend I'm a defensive lineman. Come at me."

"You sure...?"

"What, you think I can't take you?" Beiste snapped.

"It's not that! It's just—" Dave raised his arms, gesturing towards her, before immediately realizing what he was doing and dropping them, trying to mute the creeping horror coming over him.

Beiste rolled her eyes. "Typical. Kids think that just 'cause I'm over twice your age, I've suddenly got pixie sticks for bones and I'm slower than a greyhound with the short straw. Well, I'm your _coach_ for a reason. Now." She squatted into a ready posture. "Come at me."

Dave shook his head a little, snatched up the football, then squatted himself, facing her five yards away. The two locked eyes; Dave's widened slightly, but then set, in that same determined squint she remembered from tryouts.

He gave no warning when he suddenly lunged at her. Good.

It was over so quickly — she was disappointed in how quickly. To Dave, she found out later, it was all blurs, dizzying flashes of movement. But in her mind, every action, every muscle twitch — hers and his — was crystal clear. First, he went straight at her. When he realized that she wasn't flinching, he was the first to try to dodge (bad decision), attempting to roll to his left. Once she got her arm around his waist, it didn't take a lot of strength to put him to the ground; a little spin, to use his own momentum against him, and he was flattened on his back on the turf before he knew what hit him. As she stood over him, the football actually dribbled out of his arms and bounced to her feet, for that final touch.

He blinked up at her, wide eyed and dazed. Beiste calmly bent down and picked up the football, casually tossing it up and down in her hands. "See, kid, that's just proof of how green you are. Not that I got you, but that I got you so easy. You give Evans that kind of protection, he's gonna get ground into chili powder. For his sake, mine, _and_ yours, you gotta shape up."

Dave groaned, rubbing his eyes against the sinking afternoon sun, but he didn't say anything coherent.

"But don't you worry; like I said, you got potential. I wouldn't be bothering with you if you didn't. Hell, you wouldn't be on the team to begin with. You put in the work, take me seriously, and you'll be just fine." She hunkered down next to him and held out a hand. "Well? You willing?"

There were a lot of young men who would've refused her hand, gotten up on their own. And she could understand that; she could understand pride. But she wouldn't lie and say she wasn't pleased when Dave sighed from his prone position and took her hand, letting her help him to his feet. "Sure. Why not. Not like it can be any more awkward." The last sentence was muttered under his breath.

"What's that?" Dave looked at her, startled, as if he hadn't even realized he'd said anything more. "What was with that last part?"

"Noth—" He gulped down the rest of the word at her glare. "Fine. It's just... Az and I being on the same team now and all..."

"I see." Again, the vague guilt stirring. She wasn't used to guilt, and she didn't particularly like it — especially when she didn't entirely understand it. "He givin' you a hard time?"

"No. I sorta wish he was."

"How's that?"

Dave didn't answer at first, staring at his feet, before he finally raised his head and replied, "My mom says that when someone gets angry at you, at least you know they care." He didn't need to go on, not to Beiste, but he did anyway. "Az... He doesn't even look at me most days. It's like I'm not even there."

"I thought you were okay with it," Beiste said softly. "You seemed like you were okay with it..."

Dave snorted. "Yeah, well, I'm good at pretending." She'd remember that statement quite a few times, later on. "And it's different when you're forced together nearly every afternoon. He said once..."

"Yeah?"

"He said I've... changed."

She stared at him for a long moment before saying, "I think you have. Can't say how much, but I think you have. And I think that's a good thing."

Dave looked up at her. "R-really? How?"

"Well..." She rolled the word on her tongue, and the thought in her mind. "I haven't known you for long, but seems to me that the old you would've been a lot more upset at losing Adams as a friend. That guy might've gone to a lot of trouble to keep him as a friend. Keep what having him as a friend meant for his rep."

"I..." He shook his head, as if trying to deny. "I am upset. About Az, I mean. About... It's just that you..."

Beiste couldn't help but smirk. "That's what I do as a coach and a teacher: I keep kids in line. As for the rest..."

"There's more?" Dave asked, startled.

Beiste shrugged. "We'll leave the rest for another time. Can't let you get too big headed, after all. Keep humble, kid."

"So there _is_ more." Beiste repeated her shrug noncommittally. "Cold, man."

She laughed. "But you're interested now, right? You could stand to take a closer look at yourself, Dave. I never got the feelin' that what ya act like is really what you are." He shrank — almost literally. Beiste raised both eyebrows. "Dave?"

"Nothin'," he said, all closed and standoffish in a way she couldn't remember since she'd first met him last year. It was in everything about him: his shoulders, almost pointing at each other; his eyes, refusing to meet hers; his hands, balled into fists so tight she might've been concerned about him throwing a punch in other circumstances.

"Dave," she said warningly, "I don't like bein' BSed..."

"I gotta go," he said, so quickly that the words almost blurred together. "Gotta get home for dinner. I'll see you tomorrow, Coach." He practically ran off the field, almost faster than his sprints earlier that afternoon.

Watching him disappear into the building, Beiste stroked her chin, frowning and shaking her head. "What the hell, Dave. What the hell...?"

* * *

 **Duets**

"You gotta talk to him, Coach!"

"I don't 'gotta' do anything," Beiste growled. "We've had this little talk before. Besides, I don't see why it's such a big deal—"

"He's ruining all of our reps!" Dave's arms were nearly windmilling. "It was bad enough when Hudson was in the stupid glee club, but now Evans too? Everyone's saying that we're all fags now!"

"Hey!" she barked. "Watch the language!"

"But that's what they're saying!" he said insistently. "Hudson, Evans, Chang, even fu— freaking _Puck_! They're all ruining our reps!"

"There you go again, worryin' about what other people think," Beiste said, shaking her head.

"Hey, this is high school. What else do we _have_ besides our rep?" Dave ran his fingers through his hair, his jaw strained. "That's why I joined in the first—" He clamped his mouth shut, but too late to seal in the words that escaped.

"Oh, really?" Beiste said slowly, rubbing her hands together. Dave began to fidget. "Only joined my team 'cause you thought it'd make you a BMOC, huh?"

"I-it's not like that."

"You just _said_ it's exactly like that..."

"But it's not the _only_ reason—"

"And what else was there?"

"You." The one word — that sole one syllable word — brought her up short, defused whatever was simmering in her psyche. "You actually convinced me you kinda care about what I do. You're the first adult I've ever met I believed when they said that." By the time he reached the end of the sentence, he was mumbling, his cheeks bright, as if praising an grownup was actually physically painful for him. But Beiste could remember what she'd thought of her elders as a teenager, so she thought she could understand.

"What about your parents?" she asked gently.

Dave shook his head. "Well, _they_ care, kinda, but... They expect _so_ much out of me..."

"And that's a bad thing? I expect a lot out of you."

Dave shook his head again, harder this time. "It's not the same thing. There's—!" He stopped, cold.

"There's what?"

"Nothing." He caught the look on Beiste's face. "Nothing!" he repeated, snarling now. "Anyway, what's this got to do with Evans embarrassing us?"

"What does Evans have to do with _you_ being embarrassed? And what is it with this school and the glee club, anyway? Everyone acts like they're some kinda circus clowns or somethin'. What the hell is wrong with singing?"

Dave boggled. "You're joking, right? Have you ever seen them? _Heard_ them?"

"Of course I have. Can't exactly help it around here, can I?" Beiste shrugged. "They're not bad. What's the big deal?"

"I keep telling you—!" Dave rubbed his face with both hands, so hard his skin turned red. "You aren't fucking _listening_!"

"I am listening," Beiste replied flatly. "I just don't believe what I'm hearin'. In fact..." She leaned back in her chair, threading her fingers together. "I've been meanin' to talk to you about this."

Dave's anger drained from him like water through a sieve. He paled. "About... what?"

"I've been keepin' an eye on you, like I promised." She picked up a pen and tapped it against her other hand. Dave's eyes seemed to zero in on it, watching it clack against her palm in a regular beat. Click, click, click. "You gettin' all worked up like this, it isn't unusual. In fact, you've been stompin' around like a buffalo neck deep in tomato sauce lately. Snarlin', snappin'... What's going on with you?"

Dave shuffled his feet for a moment, then crossed his arms. "Who says anything's wrong?" he said in a parody of a sneer.

"You kids think you're being so cool and clever and unreadable," Beiste said, shaking her head. "Come on, Dave, stop treatin' me like some kind of idiot."

"And stop treating me like you're my mother! I'm doing fine! I'm running the plays right, aren't I?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"So get off my case! I don't need anyone poking their nose into my life!"

"Why?" Beiste asked coldly. "What are you afraid they'll find?"

"N-nothing! How would _you_ like it if everyone was always looking over your shoulder trying to figure out what was wrong with you?"

"Well," Beiste replied mildly, "if _everyone_ was doing it, I'd start to wonder if there really was something wrong." Dave froze, almost literally; she could see the corded muscles in his arms seize up. "And I don't appreciate your tone, Dave. You know I'm not askin' because your life is so all-fired fascinating, right?"

"I—!" He took a long, ragged breath. "I'm sorry, coach," he said, in a voice that was even — way too even. "I've just had a lot to think about lately."

"Obviously," Beiste said dryly. She sighed; when she spoke again, her own voice dialed down a couple of notches. "If you need someone to talk to..."

"No, I'm fine," Dave said, still in that artificially calm tone. "But..." Some of the life, the anger, began creeping in, just in that one syllable. "About Evans...?"

"As far as I'm concerned, he's free to do what he wants on his own time if it doesn't interfere with his quarterbackin'. You let me deal with that if it becomes a problem. As for you..."

"Okay. Thanks, Coach." He turned, and began leaving the room without another word.

"Dave! Karofsky, wai—!" She pinched the bridge of her nose as the door slammed behind him.

She really should have done more. She realized that not long after subsequent events, and she'd kick herself for years for not using his position on the team to leverage more cooperation out of Dave. But then, she told herself, she had no idea if he was dealing with anything more than the typical hormone-charged teenage angst she saw every single day — the kind that would only be made worse by a lot of poking and prodding. She told herself that experience had taught her that trying to get him to open up would be futile until she figured out just what she was dealing with.

She told herself that her choices had nothing to do with the fact that the next day after every such "discussion," Dave would take to the football field like a man possessed, knocking down scrimmage opponents (and occasionally real opponents) like bowling pins.

It was two days after this particular "discussion" that she was on her way to her car one afternoon when she heard Azimio Adams' voice ringing loud and bold from around the corner of the main school building.

"... Fuck, man, I can't believe Puckerman. Of all the guys I never thought would defect over to the fucking _glee club_ , he had to be on the top of my list!"

"I know, right?" She couldn't quite connect the other voice to a face or name; she thought it may have been one of the other offensive linemen, Lonnie Waters. "Puckerman, Hudson, Chang... They even got _Evans_ into the damn thing, and he's the new guy!"

"There's just _something_ about that glee club, man. Turns guys into fucking _fags_." Beiste stiffened.

"I know! You think that's why Karofsky—?"

Azimio laughed, a high, sharp bark. "Nah, I think that's Coach! Spending all that detention with her musta caused his balls to shrivel and fall off, y'know?"

"Didn't you two use to be tight?"

There was a long pause before Azimio replied. "Yeah, I guess. But after last year... Dude just isn't the same guy, y'know? I mean, you can see it, right? He's, like, a fucking _pussy_."

"Seriously? He's pretty good on the field."

"On the field, sure, but you shoulda known him before, man. He was up for _anything_. I tell you, I never thought I'd miss Tanaka, but he sure as shit wouldn't have let Hudson and the others be in the fucking glee club, and he _never_ would've let Karofsky turn into some kind of nancy-ass little girl who—" There was a perfectly good reason Azimio choked on his own tongue at that moment. It was because Beiste stepped around the corner, casting her looming shadow over the faces of the three football players (and yes, one of them was Lonnie Waters) like an eclipse. "C-coach! Hey!" All three looked ready to wet themselves, which caused Beiste no small measure of satisfaction. "Nice day, isn't it? Hey, guys, why don't we go down to McD's and—"

"Stop. Right. There." Azimio froze in mid-turn. The other two looked at each other, then Beiste, as if wondering whether to make a run for it. She hoped to God they would. "Let's have a little talk, gentlemen. And I promise, your balls will not shrivel and fall off." She leaned towards them, close enough for her breath to tickle their faces. "Unless I _rip_ 'em off."

As one, the trio paled.

The next afternoon, Dave watched next to Coach Beiste as three completely exhausted football players dragged themselves over the start line at the track. "Pick up the pace!" she barked at them. "You still got drills with extra reps after you're done with your laps!"

"Uh, and why am I here?" Dave asked gingerly.

Beiste shrugged. "I just thought you'd like watching."

She followed Dave's gaze, towards the panting dark-skinned teenager shining with sweat, his shoulders so slumped his knuckles were practically cutting furrows in the track. He looked back at her, a shadow of a grin on his lips. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I guess I kinda do."

With a nod, the two returned to watching the gasping trio, as Bart Fisher almost yaked his lunch onto the groundskeepers' nice clean track.

* * *

 **Never Been Kissed  
**

For years afterwards, Shannon Beiste would look at this particular date on her calendar and feel a surge go through her heart.

November 9, 2010.

She'd close her eyes, and see the date on her desk calendar in her office with such crystal clarity that she could've been looking at a real, corporeal photograph right in front of her. She figured that subsequent events were branded so sharply in her mind that it brought that entire day into focus.

In fact, she could run down every minute of it in her head: what she had for breakfast (oatmeal with cinnamon and toast), who the first person to greet her at school was (Finn Hudson; he said "Yo, coach, how's it going?"), how many times Sue Sylvester gave her "that look" in the halls (eight).

She didn't personally see or hear a thing, but the _weight_ of that day and what happened in it was still palpable.

All the trouble that day was centered around the locker room; it was where the first rumblings of trouble began. She could hear raised voices from halfway down the hall. It was only as she opened the door that she realized it was just one raised voice: that of Dave Karofsky.

"I can't fucking _believe_ you people!" He was red faced, practically screaming, his voice tight and high pitched. "You say you're proud to be losers and all that shit, but all you are are a bunch of fucking... fucking _hypocrites_!" Finn Hudson, Sam Evans, and Mike Chang were the recipient of his rage, but what struck Beiste about the scene was their reaction — all three were silent, none of them speaking in their defense or in anger, or even looking Dave in the eye. It was almost as though they were... ashamed? "Did you even _think_ about what the hell you were doing? Did you even think about how Coach would _feel_ if—"

"Feel if what?" All four boys whirled to face her; emotions flickered on each face, so fast and so varied that it almost made her dizzy. "What's going on? And what's this got to do with me?"

There was trouble brewing — that much was obvious. Yet even confronted with a clear chance to get his enemies in hot water, including the hated Finn Hudson, there was no smugness or glee in Dave's features — just pure anger. This, more than anything else about this situation, disturbed Beiste. "Tell her," he growled. The other boys remained silent. Sam Evans actually coughed. "If you don't tell her, I will."

"I... didn't do anything," Mike Chang said weakly. "It was..." He trailed off, looking even more ashamed, if that were possible.

"Karofsky..." Hudson began nervously.

" _Tell her_!" The cramped stone walls echoed with the shrieked words. The three other boys physically jumped; Beiste had to admit she was a little startled herself, and she was a hard woman to startle.

"I'm so sorry, Coach..." Evans began, the words tripping over themselves and his lips in almost a babble. "I didn't mean to—"

"We were just talking, Sam and me, and I was talking about the mailman..."

"... Needed something to cool down..."

"... And I just thought of you, and I didn't mean to..."

"... Told me, and I told Tina..."

"... Karofsky overheard us..."

"... I'm sorry, Coach, I really am..."

There were more words than that, of course, sometimes running over each other in tangles of syllables, but those were the only ones Beiste could remember afterward. And she got the gist of it anyway.

"I see." Some part of her mind wondered if her voice sounded as strained to the boys as they did to her own ears, but at the same time admiring of how evenly they came out. Thoughts and emotions were pounding at her skull behind her eyes; she was mildly surprised that she was still steady on her feet. The press of her fingernails in her palms told her that her hands were balled into fists, but she was barely aware of it otherwise. "I'll deal with you later. Now _get out_." This time, she could hear her own hoarseness, even though her volume barely raised above a whisper. Hudson, Evans, and Chang bolted from the locker room as if someone had lit their t-shirts on fire. Only Dave remained, staring after them, glowering. Bieste turned away; in the instant before Dave's face disappeared from view, she saw a flash of his face soften, but she didn't pause to consider its meaning. She stomped into her office, slamming the door behind her, trying to will away the heat in her cheeks, in her eyes.

 _They're just stupid kids. You know how stupid they are. And you ain't a looker — you've always known that._

None of it made her feel any better. All of her intentions, all of her mantras, all of her practice in keeping her chin up and the fire in her belly, fled at a single thought.

 _You'll never escape it. Never._

She sank into her chair, trying to get her breathing under control. It wouldn't do any good to break down, not here, not when someone could come into her office at any moment ( _think about Sylvester, about how happy it'd make her to see you like this_ ). Her fingers scrabbled for a tissue from her right hand desk drawer; it tore under her shaking, pinched grip. She wiped her eyes, hoping that her face wasn't too blotchy.

 _You'll never escape it. Never._

She wanted to run. She just wanted to run and never stop. At least then she'd be somewhere different, where there wouldn't be the _eyes_ and clucking tongues and disapproval — for a while, anyway. At least it would take a while for the old stereotypes to settle in, for her to be lost and alone again. At least—

There was a gentle knock on the door. "Coach?" Her head shot up, even as she thanked God her eyes still felt dry. The door creaked open, and Dave poked his head in tentatively. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she snapped, internally wincing at how choked her voice sounded. "What do you want? Want to make sure those guys are in trouble? Well, you got it; they're in a _heap_ of trouble. Hope you're happy."

"No. I'm not." And he wasn't — at least, he didn't sound like he was. That fact alone startled the self pity out of Beiste. Dave wore a hangdog look, like a pointer that pointed in the wrong direction and disappointed its master. She sighed and waved him in. He immediately slid in and sat in his usual chair. "Are you okay?" he repeated.

It was almost obscene; it went against the natural order of things for a student to be asking that question of a teacher. "I'm fine," she lied, even knowing that he'd know it was a lie. She needed to tell that lie right now; she frankly couldn't handle the truth. "Why?"

"I..." He squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, as if he too was feeling the obscenity of the situation. "You shouldn't have to take that shit," he said, his face becoming ruddy with anger once more. "Those fucking hypocrites don't know you."

"And you do?"

"Better than they do, that's for fucking sure." She couldn't deny that. "And they talk about how they're all accepting and all that shit? I knew it wasn't anything but fucking lies."

"It's all right." It wasn't, and she was pretty sure that was obvious to Dave, but it was an automatic reflex, only strengthened by the fact that she was talking to one of her players, rather than a peer or a parent. "They didn't mean nothin'..."

"Bullshit!" Dave barked. "You shouldn't have to deal with shit like that! You... you don't deserve that." He faltered, just for a moment, before continuing. "Nobody does."

Beiste couldn't help but snort. "This something you just figured out? 'Cause the way I remember it, you were dishin' it out pretty well yourself. Or is it different 'cause they 'deserved it'?" Dave flushed; apparently, she'd struck home. "You wanna convince me you really care, Karofsky? Don't be like them. Don't lower yourself to their level. Then maybe I'll cut you a break."

"Okay." The word was quiet, strong, and immediate; she couldn't help but be startled. "Y-you're right, I..." He sighed. "I just... I was so tired, you know? I was tired of being pushed around. I... I saw a chance, to get out from under it, and I felt like..."

"You had to take it. You'd been fighting it for years, and you just couldn't get it in you to fight anymore."

Dave's eyes widened; then, he nodded. "Yeah, that's it. That's it exactly."

"I understand, Dave, I do, no matter what you think. That don't mean I approve, though. The time to do the right thing is _exactly_ when it ain't what you want to do. When you feel weak, that's the time you gotta stand up for yourself. That's when—" She broke off. God, how long had been been since she last listened to _hersel_ _f_? Was she actually thinking of running away, of letting a bunch of thoughtless _kids_ run her off? She was an adult, for Christ's sake! Enough with the fleeing in tears already! She'd done enough of that, and she was sick of it.

Her natural will was starting to reassert itself deep in her gut, and damn if it didn't feel good.

"Coach?" It was only with Dave's query that Beiste remembered that she'd interrupted herself in the middle of a sentence.

"Never mind," she said. "But I mean it, kid: fight your own battles. I can take care of myself."

"But that's just it! You said it yourself: you get so goddamn tired of fighting and nobody caring! Those guys _need_ to _stop_ it..." With every word, Beiste could _hear_ Dave getting more and more worked up. So okay, he had an idea of what it was like to be mocked and belittled. But this... Even when it was at its worst in her own life, she couldn't remember being _this_ agitated. And combine it with his behavior lately...

"And I'll make sure they do it. What, you don't trust my discipline?"

"No, it's just that it's obvious they don't fucking respect you..."

"Then who's going to make them? You?" She hadn't intended the last word to sound so sneering, but it did, somehow. "Look," she said, more gently, "if anyone's gonna earn their respect, it's gotta be me, not from one of my players trying to beat it into them..." She raised an eyebrow at him, but he barely seemed to notice.

"Well, they'd deserve it anyway," he growled.

"Hey!" she snapped. "Worry about yourself. What's gotten into you? You're as jumpy as a opossum on the back of a rodeo clown."

"Christ, you too? It's nothing!" This time, even Dave seemed to hear the volume of his own voice; when he spoke again, it was significantly dialed down. "Is that all, Coach?"

Beiste sighed inwardly — it was pretty obvious she wasn't going to get anything more from him. "Yeah, that's all. I'm fine. Really." She was only mildly surprised to realize she meant it.

"Good." He turned towards the door, then turned back on his heel. "But I swear, if those guys pull this shit again..."

"Worry about yourself," Beiste repeated pointedly. "You know, kid... Eventually you'll have to connect with _someone_ about this, or you're gonna crack like an egg."

Dave said nothing in response. He just stared at her silently for a long minute, until finally, he pulled open the office door and left.

Beiste massaged her throbbing temple, wondering just which one of them was going to crack first at this rate. It was as though just being around Dave was putting pressure on her too, like standing next to a bomb whose timer was rapidly descending towards zero. She just hoped that the explosion wouldn't take out everything around it.

As it turned out, she wasn't around for that explosion, but she just happened to be there for the aftermath. Beiste was heading towards her office later that afternoon, trying to lose herself in X's and O's, when the door to the boy's locker room burst open, so hard that she could hear the rattle of wood against stone. Dave emerged, his face screwed up so tight that he looked like he'd spent hours sucking on a lemon. His steps were quick, but stumbling; he nearly tripped over his own feet. His eyes were darting about, but they passed right over her; they looked, but they didn't see. Finally, he ran to his right, a red blur disappearing in a flash. Odd. Frowning, she started down the hall to follow when the locker room door opened again.

This time, it was Kurt Hummel who appeared. He was disheveled and pale, his eyes also staring but not seeing. He was breathing rapidly, not so much walking as shuffling like an old man. Beiste's hands tightened into fists. What the hell had Dave done to the kid this time? "Hummel?"

Kurt jumped backwards, nearly slamming against the now-closed locker room door. It took a second for his eyes to focus on her — the first time her presence had been acknowledged by either teenager. He immediately relaxed. "Oh! Ah... Coach!"

"Is something the matter?" she asked as gently as she could.

"What? Oh, nothing's the matter..."

"I saw Dave Karofsky just now." And yes, the paleness was back. "Did he do something to you? Threaten you again? Because if he did—"

"No no," Kurt said quickly. "I just... We just..." His fingers brushed against his lips; something nagged in the back of Beiste's mind. "We were just talking... That's all..."

That was clearly bullshit, and she was about to say so, when the nagging in Beiste's memory turned into a full fledged mule kick to the cranium. It was as though the entire world was greyed out; was that what Dave and Kurt experienced? All she could see were Kurt's reddened lips and the _memory_...

 _Junior year of high school. Shannon Beiste was about to open the door to the girl's bathroom when it swung open from the inside. May Greenwood, pretty and popular cheerleader, strode out. Her lips were plump and reddened — more so than usual, even underneath her messy lipstick. She took no notice of Shannon (thank God), vanishing quickly down the corridor. Sighing in relief, Shannon's hand rose towards the bathroom door when it once again opened from the inside. This time, Kyle Harper, football player, emerged. His lips were also red — not to mention smeared with lipstick. He looked coolly at Shannon for a moment, then waggled his eyebrows with a smug leer. He wiped off the lipstick on the back of his hand and walked away. Shannon shook her head and sighed...  
_

No.

That couldn't be right.

That couldn't _possibly_ have anything to do with this.

Could it?

"Kurt...?" she began hesitantly.

A hundred little splinters in her brain.

Odd looks.

Eyes wandering where they perhaps should not have.

Taking a few more seconds to laugh whenever someone made a crack to the glee club members about "fags."

It was like dominoes falling, one after another, click-click-click.

His rages. His nervousness. His obsession with his rep and the glee club.

It didn't make any sense...

No, it made too much.

"It's nothing." This time she was the one who nearly jumped. "Really," Kurt said. "He didn't..." He swallowed. "Hurt me..."

She opened her mouth to say something, but the words died in her throat. How could she ask? What if she were wrong? She was basing all of this on a bunch of little things that could've had any one of a hundred explanations...

But Kurt Hummel was in front of her, right now, lips and all, and her instincts were screaming at her. She'd been wrong before — plenty of times — but she'd never been _that_ wrong. Not when all the pieces were falling together.

She was becoming almost physically dizzy — it was too much, too much... Was this what Kurt was feeling? He sure didn't have the attitude of someone who'd known (if she was right but of course she was right)... Oh, God, did that mean—?

"You're sure?" she said harshly. "He didn't lay a hand on you?"

"Well..." Kurt fidgeted. "He did. Kind of. But it wasn't anything you need to be concerned with, really."

"He didn't hurt you."

"No. He stopped when I—" He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath. "He stopped," was all he said. She didn't know what he was trying to express then; it didn't look like Kurt himself knew either. Beiste had absolutely no idea what was going on. There was sure a hell of a lot more to it than Kurt Hummel was telling. But she did get the sense that he would've said something had Dave gone _that_ much too far, so...

"Okay." She nodded. "Okay," she repeated, sounding like an idiot even to her own ears. Without even pausing to see Kurt's reaction, she turned and headed for her office. She had to be alone for a while, she had to _think_...

In the isolation and relative safety of her office, door firmly locked, she was able to think, and the more she did, the more it fit. Certainly there were other explanations, but she believed in simplicity, and that one little tiny assumption very simply explained a _lot_.

Shannon Beiste was a small town gal through and through — she settled in Lima to capture a little bit of those aspects of home that she liked and was familiar with. So she knew what the church and her parents and her peers said about... about people like _that_. She'd heard it all her life, and she had to admit, she did wince a little when she saw those parades on TV, with everyone walking around almost naked. Her stomach did a slight turn whenever she saw two people of the same gender being... _affectionate_.

But at the same time... She'd been the butt of that same prejudice, the same assumptions, for much of her life, just because she didn't act exactly the way other girls acted and didn't like exactly what other girls liked. She could say she liked men until she was blue in the face, but oh, no, her peers _knew_ , because it was so _obvious_ , just _look_. And if it hurt her so bad, she who actually did consider herself straight, she could only imagine what it was like for those who actually _were_ , those who didn't hide...

She shook her head as she rose. Her feet, her soul, was itching. She'd spent entirely too much time holed up in this cramped little space and _thinking_. Only one cure for that.

The football field was empty at that hour — perfect for her. Beiste ran wind sprints, over and over. She went over some of her formations and plays. She ignored the cold and the wind and the thoughts that intruded in her mind over and over, trying to lose herself in the field, in the game.

And she even actually succeeded for a little while.

She was testing out a freshly inflated football when she spotted a distant figure crossing the parking lot. It could've been anyone, but there was something about the silhouette that was familiar: the size, the gait, the way the bowed head bounced as it slouched at a rapid clip... She threw the football to the ground and jogged to the fence.

It was, indeed, Dave Karofsky. He was a few paces short of an outright run, even though there was nobody else around. "Dave!" She sprinted for the nearest gate as the young man's head shot up. "Dave, wait up!"

Instead of "waiting up," he broke out into that outright run. Beiste cursed under her breath; why hadn't she waited until she was closer? By the time she tore the gate open, Dave had opened the door of his car. By the time she reached the curb, he was backing out. By the time she reached the parking space, it was empty, and she was watching a cloud of dust settle as Dave's car disappeared from view.

"Goddammit."


	4. Season Two, Part Two

**The Substitute**

Of course, one advantage she had was that Dave _had_ to come to school. If she'd had the time and freedom to stake out his classes, she would have. But she'd decided that wasn't the best idea; he might be on his guard, expecting such a move. Better to confuse her opponent, take him by surprise. When his guard was down, he might be more vulnerable.

To talk, of course, not to be tackled. Sometimes she had to remind herself of that.

It took a few days (more than she expected; the kid was slipperier than she'd thought), but she did manage to find him.

Unfortunately, so had Kurt Hummel.

The two were standing close — much too close. Though they weren't that dissimilar in height, Dave was towering over Kurt — or was Kurt cowering? Dave's lips were twisted in a snarl, his finger jabbed into Kurt's chest... A finger that slowly dragged itself down, achingly slowly...

Beiste's disbelief and doubt of her own conclusions plunged into the basement.

As she approached, the conversation — or at least Dave's side of it — came into focus. "If you tell anyone, I'll—"

"You'll do what?" Dave whirled like a top at her voice. She crossed her arms and plastered on her most intimidating glare; Dave flinched. Good. "Is everything all right here?"

"Sure, coach," Dave said, only the slightest tremor to his voice (which Beiste had to feel a _little_ grudging admiration for) as Kurt quickly took advantage of the distraction to slide out from under Dave Karofsky's form. "Hummel and I were just... having a little chat, right?"

"That so?" She stepped between the two, interrupting the glare that Dave was sending in Kurt's direction. "Then you don't mind if we have a little chat of our own?"

"I— No."

"Good. Wait for me in my office. If you don't, you can kiss the football team and your _rep_ goodbye." Dave didn't move. "You heard me! Scoot!" Trying (and failing) one last time to catch a glimpse of Kurt from around Beiste's shoulders, he scurried off. Once he was out of sight, she turned to Kurt, who was leaning hard against the lockers behind him, his eyes closed, his breathing rapid but slowing. He was clutching something in his hands that she couldn't quite make out. "You okay, Kurt?"

He opened his eyes, shoving the something into his pocket. "Yes... Yes, I am. Thank you."

"Mind if I ask what that was all about?"

Kurt shrugged. "He didn't get the chance to get to the point before you intervened." Beiste was pretty sure that was a lie, but what possible reason would this kid have for protecting Dave? She'd always heard that "those kinds of people" stuck together, but if she was right, this situation would go _way_ beyond reason...

"Well, if he bothers you again... If he so much as _looks_ at you funny... Let me know, and I'll take care of him."

Kurt stared at her for a moment, as if searching her face for some sign that she'd disappoint him, as he'd doubtlessly been disappointed by many at this place (if she'd known before she applied just what kind of place McKinley was, she might've thought twice about turning down the assistant job at Thurston). Finally, he nodded, a genuine and grateful smile inching its way to life. "I will. Thank you, Coach."

"And hey," she said with a grin, "if you ever want to come back to the team..."

Kurt laughed, a sound that sent a much needed lightness through her soul. "I doubt it, but thank you for the offer."

She watched him walk away before turning and heading to her office. Dave was there, fortunately for him. She kept a steady gaze on him as she shut the door behind her; he met it, making obvious effort to keep his face blank, but not quite succeeding. As an athlete, she could always smell fear, and it was practically oozing out of Dave's pores — had been for quite a while now, come to think of it.

Now, finally, maybe she'd get a straight answer.

She circled around him, slowly, like a shark, on her way to her desk. She said not a word as she sat, even pausing to adjust her chair a little. All the while, Dave watched, his hands clutching at the armrests of his chair. When she was good and comfortable, she still didn't say anything. Instead, she stared at him, hands clasped in front of her on the desk. Seconds passed in a steady beat. Dave's fidgeting grew more pronounced. But still she said nothing. More seconds ticked by, almost a minute, until finally, Dave, a bead of sweat drifting down his forehead, finally burst.

"Hummel's lying!"

"And what," Beiste said, "is he lying about?"

"I didn't do anything to him!"

"Then why were you threatening him?"

"I told you, we were just talking—"

Beiste slammed her palms against the desk; Dave nearly tipped his chair backwards. "You keep on lying and lying to me, and I've had enough!" She took a moment to will some calm into herself, then decided on her next move.

Shannon Beiste always considered herself a disciple of directness. As she'd told Dave many times, she didn't have the time, energy, or patience to BS or pussyfoot. Life was too short for that kind of nonsense. Tackle problems head-on, that was her style — after all, you don't stop a defensive back by backing away.

Thus, given her lack of experience in dealing with this sort of issue, it was understandable that she made the decision she did. Talking it over with others later, she realized why it was probably the wrong thing to do in this particular situation. However, she refused to beat herself up for it now; she'd been flying blind, and she just did what she thought was best. And sometimes she even convinced herself.

"Dave..." she began, softly and gently. "Are you gay?"

"What?!" Dave jumped to his feet; this time, he did knock his chair backwards. It clanged as it hit the floor. "No! No, I'm not! I'm not a fag!"

Beiste rose as well, her ears ringing with the volume and pitch of Dave's cries. "Dave, calm down—"

"I'm not! Fags are dirty and _wrong_ and— How could you ask me something like that?! I'm not gay!" Dave was tomato red now, and screaming nearly at the top of his lungs, shaking so hard Beiste could see it.

She wanted to tell him that she wasn't being convinced, not with the way he was reacting, but even she knew that would be idiotic. She sensed the razor's edge, even though she wasn't the one who was walking it, and God, it scared her — it scared her more than anything she'd ever faced in her life. All during her training as a coach and educator, it was drilled into her head, again and again, that she was taking on a job that involved molding young minds, guiding them. Sure, she absorbed the lesson, but she'd never felt that reality as harshly as she did right at that moment.

What she did, now and from here on in, could — and probably would — alter the course of David Karofsky's entire life. Just the prospect of it, the weight of that responsibility, was terrifying.

"Okay," she said, as calmly as she could. "But if you were, I want you to know there's nothin' wrong with that—"

" _Shut up_!" That Dave would've said that to her — much less screamed it as he did — spoke volumes, even more so than the tears welling in his eyes or the redness of his face or the cracks in his voice. _What the hell kind of blind fear is this kid charging through?_ "I'm not a fucking faggot! And if Hummel knows what's good for him, he'll stay the _fuck_ away from me!"

"For whose good?" The words slipped out before Beiste could stop them. "His or yours?"

Dave kicked the fallen chair. It slid across the floor like a hockey puck, slamming into a wall with a ringing clang. " _I'm_ _not a faggot_!" He wiped the moisture off his face (his teeth grinding so hard that Beiste could almost hear them crack) and charged out of the office. The glass rattled so hard when it slammed shut that it almost cracked.

Beiste let out a breath and almost collapsed into her chair, her knees and back like jelly. Well, she had her answer now.

The question was, what could she do about the answer she had?

* * *

 **Furt**

For over a week, a weird state of detente descended between Coach Beiste and Dave Karofsky. Every time she approached the team, every practice he was in (after missing two due to "illness"), he obeyed her barked orders quickly and silently. But walk towards him, look at him, look like she was even _considering_ talking to him? He'd jump and very quickly discover somewhere else he absolutely had to be right at that moment. He must have realized by now how he'd looked in Beiste's office, how he'd reacted, and it seemed that he had little idea how to deal with it.

Beiste only wished she had any better of an idea.

She supposed she could've gone to Emma Pillsbury for help, but if Dave's reaction was any kind of indication, the fewer people who knew about this, the more comfortable everyone involved would be, including her and probably Kurt Hummel. Hell, Dave was so upset with just her questions that she wondered if he'd... hurt himself, and was hugely relieved when he came to school the next day. So a more delicate touch was obviously in order. She got online and researched. She spent hours reading blogs, watching videos, even posting anonymously on message boards.

What she learned opened her eyes. The kinds of things some of these kids went through: the abuse, the shame, the fear. What did she know about Dave Karofsky's life, really? What did she know about what he'd been told, what he'd been taught, what he'd been raised with at home? If it was anything like some of these online stories... She felt like weeping just thinking about it. She thought she had a rough childhood... But then, much of what she'd gone through was based on the same factors, wasn't it? To think she'd thought of... of gays as some kind of sexual maniacs...

No, she'd never thought that — not exactly. But it was equally hard to say that she viewed them as equal human beings she could relate to. She, of all people, should've known better, right? Some of the people she talked to online tried to reassure her: "At least you're trying to learn. That's more than any of my teachers ever did." "Never feel ashamed for what your upbringing taught you. Only feel ashamed if you refuse to change once you know better." "Your concern for your student is admirable." But none of it erased her guilt and shame — not completely.

And, of course, life conspired to pull a rug out from under her before she had a chance to get her head screwed on straight or catch her breath. (Then again, given how things turned out, perhaps what happened was a blessing in disguise — it made her confront the realities head on, instead of letting her dither for weeks like a rodeo cowboy at a chili cookoff.) She was summoned to the office of Acting Principal Sue Sylvester (oh Lord) — abruptly and without any explanation or regard for her time, as usual. Muttering darkly under her breath, Beiste went to what was formerly Figgins' office, expecting to have to endure another "meeting" to "discuss" the football team's budget.

What she found instead was Dave Karofsky, looking like he'd just been run over by a herd of cattle.

He was flanked by two people she vaguely remembered seeing Dave talk to at games, whom she assumed must be his parents: a broad shouldered, graying man with a goatee and a tall redheaded woman. Presiding over this little court was Sue Sylvester, sitting behind her desk with arms folded.

"Come in," she said impatiently, without a word of introduction, small talk, or explanation. Beiste sighed inwardly and entered; under other circumstances, she might've tried to assert herself, but seeing as how fate seemed to have brought her the opportunity to make some headway with Dave, she decided to sit back and see where this was going. "Your trained gorilla here..." Sylvester continued, nodding at Dave. Mrs. Karofsky's eyes widened in surprise at this; Mr. Karofsky's brow furrowed. Dave didn't seem to hear or see the epithet at all. "... Isn't quite housebroken yet. He was involved in a fight this afternoon with some of his teammates." Sylvester raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you didn't know about it. You _are_ their coach, aren't you, Shannon?"

Beiste felt her mouth fall open in a rather unattractive and humiliating way. No, she hadn't known about this fight. She couldn't have been _that_ absorbed in her Dave dilemma... could she? But this had to mean that the others involved — whoever they were — didn't come to her for some reason. Why not?

"I was the one who had to break up the party," Sylvester said, and that right there was probably the reason. The woman was nuttier than a whorehouse in January, and nuts were damn _scary_. "It was only luck that I was nearby to clean up the mess while you were busy picking 'tobaccy' out of your teeth or whatever." Umbrage raced through Beiste's spine, but Sylvester went on before she could even open her mouth to express displeasure. "Seems Paddington here didn't like a joke that Noah Puckerman made."

"Joke?" Beiste had no idea how that word had ended up being the first one she had room to speak, but there it was.

"I didn't get exactly what it was, but I didn't particularly care. From what I got out of all the babbling afterward, it had something to do with Karofsky's mood, which is apparently more sullen than even most of the testosterone poisoned zombies lurching around this school."

"Who... who else was involved?"

"Michael Chang, Sam Evans, Artie Abrams." It didn't escape Beiste's notice that all of them were also members of the glee club. "Abrams took a bit of a spill."

Mr. Karofsky looked at Dave in horror. "Isn't he the kid in the wheelchair? David—!"

"It was an accident," Dave mumbled, the first words she'd heard him speak that clearly since the incident in her office. "He got in the middle."

"I don't understand this!" Mrs. Karofsky said to Sylvester. "David is a good kid!"

"That's what they all say," Sylvester said without a shred of emotion. "Even Dahmer's mom told me that he was a joy and an angel."

"Oh, I know that, but David's different! He's not some kind of bully! Just look at his record!" Beiste couldn't help remembering that she actually had, and that doing so arguably started this whole mess in the first place. "This isn't like him! He goes to church every Sunday! Talk to Father Mitchell at St. Luke's! He'll tell you this isn't the real David!"

Dave himself was inching lower and lower in his chair; Beiste could only imagine what this St. Luke's was like for a boy who liked boys. It wasn't like any of the churches she'd known at his age were exactly tolerant or progressive.

"Church, eh?" Sylvester seemed to be rolling the word over on her tongue, as if thinking thoughts similar to Beiste's (a concept that frankly gave her the dry heaves). "How lovely. After all, it's not like churches _ever_ engaged in mindless violence or blind prejudice, have they?"

Mrs. Karofsky sat up bolt upright. "Ms. Sylvester—"

" _Principal_ Sylvester."

"My faith is important to me and my family, and I'll thank you not to make fun of it."

"Deb—" Mr. Karofsky began uncomfortably.

"No, Paul, I'm sick of being... being _mocked_ just because I happen to believe in a higher power like millions of other people. I'm sorry, _Principal_ Sylvester, if my beliefs make you uncomfortable, but I've done my best to live by actual Biblical principles, which _includes_ the 'love thy neighbor' bits that I'll admit too many other Christians ignore. I won't apologize for believing in actual morality, or for teaching my children what I think is important." Mrs. Karofsky turned up her nose in defiance; Beiste couldn't help but feel a stab of admiration for someone who'd dare to do that to Sue Sylvester, even if it was likely out of ignorance. "I trust the church. It's done right by me, and it's done right by the world, including my son. So excuse me if I put more faith in it than a cheerleading coach."

Throughout this spiel, Beiste kept her eye on Dave. Seeing his growing antsiness, his worried glances at his mother, told her everything she needed to know about where this kid was coming from in regards to homosexuality — or at least, it told her enough. God, she really did go about this the wrong way, didn't she, now that she knew what she was having to work against?

Sylvester merely stared at Mrs. Karofsky. "Are you done?" she asked flatly.

"Yes," was the reply, spoken with only the barest hint of intimidation.

"Then we need to decide what to do about your son. Which is why I asked Coach Beiste here."

Being drawn into the conversation again threw her off a little. "Me?"

"Last year, Dave had a several months long detention with the coach."

Both elder Karofskys turned to Dave in shock. "You said you were doing extra hockey practices!" Mr. Karofsky burst out. "You lied to us?"

"You were in detention?! What for?"

"Although it obviously did him as much good as her football coaching," Sylvester went on as if she hadn't been interrupted, "I think maybe Dave might be a little more... amenable to being guided now that he's a member of her team. So I'm reinstating his detention with her, starting tomorrow."

Beiste's throat tightened in shock. This was about as close to a vote of confidence as Sylvester had ever given her. What the hell was her game? What did she know?

"He'll be under strict scrutiny. If he steps the smallest pinkie toe out of line, I'll bring down the hammer so fast he'll sell his soul to escape me." Sylvester looked up at Beiste. "This okay with you, Coach?" she asked, with a glare in her eyes that said "it'd better be."

"Of course," Beiste replied, impressing herself with the evenness of her voice, given the circumstances.

"It's fine with me too."

"Dad—!"

"I agree with Paul. Apparently, David has some things to work through. We'll be following up at home too." Mrs. Karofsky cast her own glare at Dave; Beiste couldn't help but wonder if this "follow up" would do anyone any good, least of all Dave... Or just more harm.

Mr. Karofsky rose. "On behalf of my family, I'm sorry to have taken up your time, Principal Sylvester," he said a little stiffly. He turned to Beiste. "David will be reporting to you tomorrow for as long as it takes." He then turned to his son. "Right, David?"

Dave only nodded, silently and sullenly.

"Good," Sylvester said. "Maybe we can deal with this in a way that doesn't result in a cavalcade of sad failure." Beiste wasn't at all sure who or what she was referring to, but whatever it was, she didn't like it. But she held her tongue, watching as the Karofskys left the office. She barely heard Mrs. Karofsky's voice saying something about missing a meeting in Chicago as the door shut behind them. "Don't screw this up again, Shannon." Sylvester's voice startled her out of her own thoughts.

"Like you care," she replied with a snort, even as defensiveness rose in her mind. She hadn't screwed anything up! Only she had, and she'd been kicking herself over it just minutes before. But there was no way Sylvester could know that.

Right?

Sylvester's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me what I do and don't care about. This is _my_ school..."

"Until Figgins gets better."

" _My_ school, and I'm running it so that the kids here actually have a _future_ , even those unwashed, concussed apes you coach. You care about Dave Karofsky? You fix him."

Beiste wanted to protest that she couldn't be solely responsible for that, but she could see that Sylvester had already shut down. It was a _subtle_ dismissal, what with her sitting at the desk and turning in her chair to face away from Beiste while she read a file. Beiste shook her head and left, still wondering just what the hell just happened.

She was still a little dazed later that day in her office, so it was natural that she only barely heard the knocking on her door. It took another fusillade of knocks to fully penetrate her consciousness. "Come in." The door creaked open, and Kurt Hummel poked his head in.

"Hello, Coach."

"Kurt. Is there something wrong?"

"Oh, no, no," he said as he slipped inside. "I'd just... I heard what happened from my friends."

"Your friends...? Oh." _That's right, the glee club. The one that took our best kicker away. Though what the hell_ is _it with that bunch...?_

"And I was wondering about Dave."

"Don't you worry about him, Kurt. I'll make sure he doesn't come within five feet of you. If he does, he'll be out of here so fast you'll think he's a hacksaw with a tooth missin'."

Kurt blinked, then said, "Oh, I know that. I was just wondering... if he was okay."

It was Beiste's turn to blink — several times, in fact. Did she just hear that? She must've been hallucinating from all these shocks to her system, one after the other, these past few days. "If... Karofsky is okay...?"

"Yes." Kurt's nod was a little stiff, a little nervous, but it was clearly a nod nonetheless. "I was just curious... I mean, he's on the same team as Finn, and he's going to be my stepbrother soon, so it's obviously better for him if everyone gets along... And Puck did kind of deserve it; he's not exactly the most polite guy, he kind of tends to speak first and think never..."

Kurt was babbling now; even if it weren't for that, Beiste knew that she wouldn't have believed a word Kurt said. Did Kurt feel sorry for Dave somehow? Kurt always did strike her as a bit of a softhearted kid, but to show this kind of concern for someone who he bullied and assaulted, perhaps in more ways than one... Was this some kind of gay unity thing?

Then it struck her with the force of lightning: he probably had no idea that she knew. It was pretty obvious he did (he had to, if what she suspected about the locker room was true)... But that also meant that he was keeping his secret. Sure, she understood it, somewhat, from what she'd read online, but if there was anyone who had more of a legit reason to out Dave, it was Kurt.

Yet here he was, dancing around like that Irish guy — Flatley or whatever — for the sake of someone who'd given him nothing but grief. It was frankly discombobulating.

"Coach?"

Oh, right, he'd asked her a question. "He's... fine." It was probably a lie, but what could she say? What could she tell him that wouldn't make everything worse, especially if (somehow) she was wrong? "He'll be in detention with me. I'll make sure he straightens out." Kurt winced, and she did too, inside. It was a spectacularly bad choice of words, especially since Kurt couldn't know how painfully she knew that.

"I... I appreciate it, Coach."

"I'm sure he doesn't," Beiste said dryly.

"Yes, well..." He stared at her for a long moment. Was he perhaps trying to judge whether she'd try to turn him straight or something? She wouldn't have asked even if she could have; she kept on her best game face.

"I'm worried about him too," she said quietly. Her entire being was rebelling at telling this to a student, but dammit, if Kurt was concerned for Dave Karofsky too, he deserved to know. "I do want to help him, Kurt."

"I..." He regarded her for another moment before nodding — just a bare nod. "I hope so." He turned and left without another word; if she hadn't known, she probably would've been confused right then.

But his meaning, his thoughts, were clear. Horribly clear.

It was only later that Beiste got up the stomach to look up St. Luke's and Father Mitchell on Google. The first result was a newspaper article on him organizing a March for Marriage last year.

Shannon Beiste silently mourned, though for whom, she couldn't say.

* * *

 **Special Education**

Beiste remembered when she'd first met Dave for detention his sophomore year, how sullen and closed off he was.

If she had any idea she'd be yearning for those days, she would've checked herself into the funny farm ages ago.

Dave was sitting in "the hot seat," silent. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes downcast, his arms crossed over his chest; only a hissing cat with an arched back could've screamed "don't talk to me!" more.

Beiste's normal tactic would've been to wait the kid out, let him stew in his own juices for a little while. But given what she now knew and suspected, she had the feeling that Dave Karofsky had actually been stewing in his own juices entirely too much. But she still took the initiative; she always did.

"Dave."

There was no response — not that she expected one anyway.

"Dave."

Not even an eyelash twitched. If it weren't for his open eyes and the gentle rise and fall of his chest under his polo shirt, she wouldn't have been sure he was even alive.

"If you're not going to talk, then you're going to at least listen." This time Dave moved; his head tilted away from her. But only a few feet separated the two; he didn't have much of a choice about listening. "I haven't told anyone. I never will — not unless you want me to. Not your parents, not the principal, not Ms. Pillsbury. This is your secret as long as you want it to be."

Dave stirred; she suspected that he wanted to protest that he had no secrets to keep (or alternately, that he wasn't a 'faggot'). But his lips didn't so much as part.

"I understand, Dave. Maybe not completely, but I do understand. I've told you what my high school life was like, right? Now, I like men. I like 'em a lot. Women never did do much for me. But you can guess what the other kids thought, can't ya? 'Cause since I don't look like what girls are 'supposed' to look like, 'cause I don't like what they're supposed to like, that's gotta mean I'm gay, right? Or maybe I wanna be a man?" She paused for a moment, unaccountably, before she continued. "That's somethin' they could tell just by _lookin'_ at me. They didn't need to talk to me, know me — they just _knew_." Her voice tightened at the memories; she only barely noticed Dave's eyes flickering towards her direction. She breathed in deeply, willing her pulse to slow. "But I know for other people it's different," she continued, remembering some of what she'd read on the message boards from the gay rugby players and soccer players and, yes, football players. "It's kinda the opposite, but kinda the same. Other people look at 'em, think they're just like everyone else, when inside... they're really not." Dave twitched. Maybe shivered? She couldn't quite tell. "It can do a real number on a person, making 'em think they're fake or wrong somehow. But they're not. Either way, other people are makin' assumptions based on how they look, and it's not your problem what other people think of you."

Dave muttered a few words under his breath. They sounded something like "Yeah, right."

"It's not, and I've been tellin' you that since last year. There ain't nothin' wrong with you, Dave. If there's somethin' wrong with you, there's somethin' wrong with me, and I _know_ you ain't gonna say _that_ to my face!" And indeed he did not, but he didn't say anything else either. "You're not alone in this, Dave, and it isn't just me either..."

Dave laughed, high and bitter. "Like Kurt cares."

Beiste raised an eyebrow. She could have reminded him that she hadn't said who she had in mind. She could've asked what he thought he and Kurt had in common. Hell, she could've pointed out that Dave had called him "Kurt" and not "Hummel" or "that fairy" or something similarly insulting. However, it was enough of a victory that Dave strung together three coherent audible words that she just said, "You'd be surprised." Dave's head snapped up so hard that she was surprised he didn't get whiplash. "And I think you're underestimatin' the kinda help you got here. Maybe you should talk to Ms. Pillsbury—"

"No," Dave said sullenly, his eyes lowering once more now that Kurt wasn't the topic of conversation (interesting, that).

"That's what she's there for, y'know. And you don't even have to tell her anythin' you don't want to—"

"I said no!" This time his voice was louder and sharper.

"Then what _will_ you do? What can I do? Meet me halfway here. You gotta get _some_ kinda help, Dave." A note of pleading inched into her voice, which was somewhat annoying — her begging a student when it should have been the other way around. But this was too important for her goddamn pride. "I ain't givin' up on you."

"Why not?" The question was infused with even more bitterness. She decided not to dignify it with a response.

"... And that includes makin' sure you don't do anything _stupid_."

"Too late," he mumbled.

"Now _that_ we can agree on." The silence that followed was leaden. "This is your first detention, so I ain't gonna make you inflate basketballs or anything like that again. What you _can_ do is talk, do yourself some good. Or you can just sit there like a damn lump and waste your time and mine."

It was no surprise when Dave chose the latter; the air was too charged with strain, thick like humidity. When five o'clock finally rolled around, he silently got up, put on his backpack, and left without a word, without even waiting for Beiste to say anything. She sighed and massaged her temples.

"I didn't sign up for this," she said to the empty office. "This is _not_ what I thought I was gonna do with my life."

But, she knew, reality wouldn't rearrange itself to make her more comfortable or absolve her of the responsibility that dropped into her lap. So she'd have to take the iguana by the horns and just deal with it, as she'd had to just deal with it her entire life.

She only hoped it'd work this time.

* * *

 **A Very Glee Christmas**

Beiste didn't ask for much out of life. She was a simple gal with simple needs, simple pleasures. So her bank account was always pretty flush with cash; it wasn't like she wanted or needed to buy a lot of stuff. She lived for experiences, not objects.

So when she mused over this frankly bizarre situation her glee club players had gotten her into, it was pretty easy to make the decision to help Artie Abrams out. So the gadget was expensive, who cared — it wasn't like the extra interest was going to do her bottom line _that_ much more good, and it was going to a worthy cause: giving a little joy to a young man who deserved it.

Dave Karofsky deserved a little joy himself, now that she thought of it.

She tapped her pen on her desk thoughtfully. It still hadn't penetrated the kid's thick skull that she was _trying_ to look out for him. Then again, she thought ruefully, how long had it taken her to shed the prejudices and stereotypes of 40-plus years? And had she entirely succeeded, even now?

She wasn't sure, but that wasn't going to stop her from trying.

But back to Dave. It didn't have to be anything fancy or expensive — just a gesture, a reminder, a bit of tangible evidence of intent. She had no idea what kind of promises had been made and/or broken to Dave Karofsky by the people in his life, but whether he was as truly alone as he seemed to think, or whether he had a support network he didn't realize was even there, she'd be damned if she'd add to his twisted and dark view of the world.

She knew what kind of madness lay in that direction. She'd seen it. She'd felt it. Her entire soul rebelled at letting someone else, anyone else, experience the same.

So it was, the week before the start of Christmas break, that Dave arrived for detention. Thus far, the afternoons passed in silence, much as the first had, with only the bare minimum of vocalization to break up the monotony — at least on his part. Beiste, though, was talking her damn throat out; she'd probably talked more to Dave Karofsky in the past month than she had her entire family during her whole childhood. She talked about her high school war stories, about accepting that the jibes and taunts were not truly indicative of her self worth, about finding her niche in college, about pursuing her dreams despite everything from outright sneers to more subtle discouragement. She unraveled memories that she'd kept locked away in her head for decades, and it stung, but it had a definite, distinct, and worthwhile purpose, so she suffered the stinging gladly.

It occurred to her several times that she was about an inch away from using Dave as her personal therapist, but hell, it wasn't like he was objecting. Then again, he didn't give much of a sign he was listening either, except to actually look up occasionally from his homework. That shouldn't have been enough to encourage her to continue, but it was, somehow.

So she had absolutely no qualms about placing the box on the desk in front of Dave. "What's this?" he asked.

"It's Christmas, isn't it?"

Dave looked up at her, gawping. "Uh, yeah, but teachers usually don't give students Christmas gifts."

Beiste shrugged. "I ain't like most folks. I thought you'd learned that by now."

"But... why?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you, Karofsky, now or ever." She circled back to her desk and sat. "Well?"

"Well wh—?" He looked down at the small box again: plain white with one of those fluffy red ribbon "domes" stuck to the top. Simple and to the point, like her. "You're supposed to wait until Christmas to open gifts..."

"I don't want you tossin' it while my back is turned," Beiste said bluntly. "Go ahead."

Dave's gaze returned to the box, as if he thought it was going to explode. Beiste merely stared, waiting patiently. Finally, slowly, his arms emerged from under the desk and gently picked up the box. He easily popped the lid off, the contents now laid bare. He was looking down at said contents, silent.

"Well?" she said, even though she had a feeling she knew. She'd put a lot of thought into it after all.

"A-are..." He took the two slim pieces of cardboard out of the box with trembling hand. "Are these Blue Jackets tickets?"

Beiste nodded. "Not exactly luxury box, but good enough, as far as I can tell. You free that weekend?"

"Y-yeah, I am..." He looked up at her, mouth agape.

"Good. And snap up that jaw, Karofsky, before you start drooling on my desk."

"It's just... I just thought..."

"Thought what?" Beiste asked with raised eyebrow.

"I thought you were gonna give me... I dunno..." He shrugged, stiff and failing at being casual. "A rainbow necklace or tickets to a musical or some shit like that."

"Now why would I do that?" Silence met her, of course. "You ain't gay, are ya?"

"No," Dave said in a low voice.

"Well, even if you were, why would I go assumin' you wanted to be out and proud or that you liked musicals? I actually know a little about you: you're good at math. You like hockey. Why would I forget any of that just 'cause you might be gay?"

Dave didn't respond, instead turning the tickets over in his hands, over and over again, as if fascinated by the lines of fine print.

"There's more to you — more to anyone — than who they wanna sleep with," Beiste went on. "It's part of all of us, but it ain't the be all and end all of _everythin'_. Not to me... And not to you. I wasn't gonna think you'd suddenly changed on me just 'cause I know... _think_ you're gay. You like hockey?" She shrugged. "You still like it. You'd be the same person t'me."

The tickets were trembling in Dave's hand. Finally, he looked up at her. "Th-thanks, Coach," he said hoarsely. "These... This is... cool."

Beiste smiled and nodded to him. "Merry Christmas, Dave."

Once again, he didn't reply. He didn't even go back to his homework — he just stared at the tickets. Beiste let him have his thoughts, returning her attention to her playbook and the upcoming playoffs.

She had a championship to win, after all.

* * *

 **The Sue Sylvester Shuffle**

Shannon Beiste had had enough.

No, make that _more_ than enough. _Miles_ more than enough.

She _still_ didn't understand the hostility this school had to the glee club, despite asking several players on both sides to explain it to her, in small words as if she were an idiot. At first, it was an annoyance, but now, on the cusp of a trophy, it was becoming a major hindrance, a very real threat to team cohesion.

Drastic measures were required, and after a consult with Will Schuester, drastic measures were undertaken.

Nobody was happy with her solution, which told her it was exactly what they needed. The fact that her instincts (fine force, those instincts of hers — they served her well both on and off the field) told her that this could be a way to pry open the welded shut safe that was Dave Karofsky's inner self was a bonus.

The collaboration between the factions in the glee club started out disastrously, but she fully expected that. If she'd expected smoothness and tranquility, the whole production wouldn't have been necessary to begin with. Still, the chaos brought on by the initial rehearsals meant that she had to spend her energy corralling her players with Will, which meant she had little to no time to keep a specific eye on Dave. But then, he was hardly the only player she was responsible for. Still, if she had to guess, he was the one who needed attention most, for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the gridiron.

Dave's detention continued, even as the championship game grew nearer. As far as she could tell from her observations and subtle questions, the other players knew about the fracas with the glee club guys, and assumed the detention was solely about that. In fact, it had actually enhanced Dave's rep amongst the "anti-glee" faction. The bitter irony for Dave was, he didn't seem to be enjoying or taking advantage of that fact at all. It was as though his energy was entirely focused on keeping up the walls during detention, as if afraid that a moment's relaxation would cause some kind of... reactor meltdown, perhaps?

At any rate, the tack she ended up taking wasn't entirely intended. However, she would've had to be blind not to notice that Dave was actually... getting into the whole glee club experience, particularly the choreography part. At least, he was taking it light years more seriously than anyone else in his "faction." He was actually paying attention to the glee members, especially Kurt and Mike, carefully copying their moves and timing, glancing nervously down at his feet to make sure he was doing the steps right. She supposed she should be surprised, especially given her spiel to him before about his sexuality not defining him, but somehow it still just... fit. Maybe it was memories of his grace on the ice and on the field, something about the ease and practice with which he moved, despite his bulky frame. She didn't know.

"Hop, shuffle, back, forth... Damn!"

That was what Dave walked in on when he arrived for detention later that week: his coach bopping around the office like a goddamn idiot. A smirk — the first positive facial expression she'd seen from him in ages — played across his face before it was quickly suppressed. Well, that at least she could understand; kid had a survival instinct like anyone else.

"Uh, Coach...?"

"Oh, hey, Dave. C'mon in." She said this without even pausing in her antics. He shut the door behind him, careful not to approach her swinging arms and legs too closely.

"Is that...?"

"Yeah, this is your halftime show choreography. I figured we could practice as part of your detention."

The smirk was back again. "Uh... why?"

"Because I don't want you embarrassing me or the team out there. Whether you're actually playing football or not, you're my representative on the field, and I want you doing this right. So I've been watching and learnin'." She nearly tripped over her laces on one of the turns. "Or tryin', anyway." She gave him a wry grin; his smirk turned into a smile. "Okay, I think I remember now... I step, turn, shuffle..."

"No, actually..." Dave dropped his backpack onto the floor and joined her. "It's step, shuffle, turn."

"Really?"

"Yeah. And you gotta go like this with your arms. One, two, three. Like that."

"You sure? I thought it was one, two..." She nearly smacked him in the face with her arm; he actually had to dodge.

" _That's_ why," Dave said with a chuckle. "Look, here, it's one, two, three..."

The embarrassing part was, the whole not-getting-the-steps-right routine wasn't an act. She genuinely was trying her best to learn and recreate the moves, but was actually screwing up — almost as bad as Hudson, to her humiliation. But there was no reason Dave had to know that, if he even suspected.

Thus, she had only a vague idea whether what Dave was showing her was really what the choreography was. But it looked right, felt right, as he took her through the motions, beat by beat, step by step, all through that afternoon and the next, with an intensity and patience that frankly startled her. And when the entire group ran through everything at the next rehearsal, lo and behold, he'd been 100% accurate. Will had even taken notice, and mentioned to her that he'd taken care to praise Dave for his dedication.

She could almost literally hear that welded shut safe door start to creak open, just a tad. Then again, she'd been applying crowbars and blowtorches to it for weeks now, so _something_ had to give.

Even then, events nearly conspired to not only weld the door shut again, but chain it closed and toss the entire safe into the ocean. She hadn't been there for the Slushie from the hockey team — only heard about it after the fact. But she still stewed about it for the entire day. First, a short chat with Coach Redding ensured that the players involved would rue the day they attacked Shannon Beiste's boys. Then, deal with Dave — and she knew she'd have to. Given what she'd been told about the words that had been slung around during the encounter, this was exactly the kind of incident Dave had been laboring so hard to avoid, and it had found him, just as he'd actually allowed himself to get lost in something he enjoyed. From what she'd heard, Dave had been on the edge of quitting the team, and getting everyone else on his "side" to do so as well, but some impulse stayed his hand — for now. Luckily, he had to come to detention, so she had the chance to nip it in the bud before it could bloom.

"I hear you're wantin' to quit," she said flatly, before he even had the chance to get comfortable. Not that he was comfortable to begin with; the Slushie incident had apparently left its mark. Or perhaps it was everything, all these months (all these years, back from before she even knew he existed?), all piling onto him at once like an avalanche. Whatever the case, it was plain that he was all nerves and tension, like a wire pulled taut; it was a familiar mood. But this time... This time it looked like he was only barely keeping ahead of his emotions. He was standing on the balls of his feet, as if prepared for flight, veins pulsing visibly on his neck and on the backs of his hands, his skin both too red and too white.

He looked like he was about to shatter if someone so much as nudged him.

Beiste was wondering whether she should be the one.

"I should," he said bitterly.

"Why? I never pegged you for a quitter." Well. Looks like she'd made her choice, even without really thinking about it.

"Because this isn't worth it!" he growled, his hands curling into fists atop his lap. "This isn't worth the Slushies and the names and..."

"Since when did someone calling someone else a few names matter to you?" she asked coldly.

"I joined the team for _me_ ," he said, seemingly ignoring her question, "and I can't get anything I want out of it anymore — not since you made us join the _stupid_ glee club! I _told_ you it was for f— losers, but you didn't listen!"

"Seems to me I did you a favor. You looked like you were doin' good out there."

Dave's head shot up, his eyes narrowed and hostile. His breathing was accelerating, enough for her to hear, much quicker than she'd expected. If he really was this fragile... "I wasn't. I hated it and it was stupid."

God, he sounded like he was six. Beiste sighed, shaking her head. "I told you, kid, stop BSing me. It doesn't work."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"Maybe because you haven't given me any reason to."

"Stop pushing me!" Dave shouted, leaping to his feet. Beiste merely looked up at him, her neutral expression not budging an inch. "Why do you keep pushing me?"

"Because _somebody_ has to."

"Why? Why doesn't everyone just leave me alone?!"

"'Cause I've _seen_ what happens when people leave you alone." She took a breath, more mental than physical — was she really going there? Yes, she really was. Her instincts (there they went again) told her it was time. "So has Kurt Hummel."

Dave almost literally froze. "What the hell do you mean by that? What did he tell you?" His voice went up at least three octaves on those last few syllables.

"He didn't tell me anything. I saw you both... after."

"I didn't do anything! He kissed _me_!"

Ah, there it was: confirmation of what she'd suspected. Instincts, you were right once more. "Oh, so you two kissed, did ya?"

"Ye— No! I didn't mean—!" Dave's fingers dug into his hair. "Stop twisting my words around!"

"I'm doin' no such thing." It was funny, almost actually funny, the contrast. Dave was growing more agitated in front of her eyes, shaking harder and harder with each passing second. Not ideal, to be sure, but she had a feeling that he needed to go through this stage in order to come out the other side whole. She, on the other hand, felt absolutely nothing inside — nothing except an almost serene calm. It was as though this entire conversation had been... _fated_ , and she was just watching the inevitable play out.

"You're making me say things I don't mean!" His words were louder.

"I'm making you tell me the truth!"

"I've been _telling_ you the truth!" Still louder.

"No, you haven't. Tell me! Tell me the truth, Dave!"

"You want the truth? You _want the fucking truth_?!" He was screaming so hard that she was glad she'd taken the time to make sure her doors and windows all shut tight. "I kissed him, all right?! He was in my face, and he was so fucking hot, and I needed him to understand and I _kissed_ him! I'm _gay_ , are you happy?!" He stopped cold; those last words were slowly penetrating his consciousness. "I'm gay," he repeated softly, as if in wonder. His face screwed up, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm... gay." His voice broke so totally in the middle of the sentence that Beiste was on her feet. His entire form seemed to crumple; he sank to his knees, almost folding up on himself. She could see drops of moisture spatter on the floor. "I'm... I'm..." He couldn't even finish the sentence this time; his shoulders wracked with sobs so hard that he was hyperventilating.

Beiste was kneeling at his side in less than a second. She put his arms around him; he leaned into it, probably unconsciously seeking the warmth, his back heaving.

She held him, gently rocking him back and forth, for what had to be at least five minutes, maybe more. His tears were soaking into her sweatshirt — not that she cared. Dave cried, his fingers clutching at her arms, for so long that she started to wonder how he could've had so many tears in him.

Finally, his hysteria started winding down. She could hear him finally start to breathe again, thank God. His grip started to slacken. It still took him a few minutes, breathing in, breathing out, his nose sucking in snot, until he finally looked up at her. His eyes, his face, were red, still wet. He sniffled.

"How do you feel, kid?" She didn't let go.

"I..." He paused, as if taking mental stock. "Bad. Drained. I dunno."

She nodded. "It's gonna be all right, Dave. Believe that, okay?"

"I... What's going to happen to me now?" His voice was plaintive, once more like he was six years old — only this time, it wasn't nearly as pathetic. "My mom, she— I can't... I can't be..."

"It's gonna be all right," she repeated so that she wouldn't have to admit she had no idea how to answer his question. She'd been almost obsessed with getting to this point; now that she was there... "What now" was an issue that hadn't even occurred to her. Some coach and educator she was. "You're gonna get through this. I ain't gonna let you do it alone. It ain't my way."

"I'm scared..." His voice was a bare whisper. "I'm so fucking scared..."

Beiste didn't have a response to that. Every one she thought of was useless, trite, or both at once. So she just held him; his head rubbed against her chest, almost like a nuzzling cat.

She had no idea how long they sat there on the cold dirty floor in silence, but they needed every second of it.

It was game time before she knew it, and she approached that evening with unusual trepidation — not out of nerves for her team (she was pretty sure they were ready for both the game and the halftime show), but for one player in particular. She'd excused him from detention for a couple of afternoons, but she knew that wouldn't — couldn't — be enough, and even actually considered pulling him altogether. But wouldn't isolating him be even worse, possibly interpretable as a sign that she thought he was too weak to be a football player? She told Dave in private that she'd support whatever he wanted to do, but did she really trust him to make that decision? Didn't she have to trust him to some extent eventually?

She kept going around and around in damn circles. It made her head hurt.

Beiste saw relatively little of Dave in the days in between, but she had no doubt he was more focused on his dilemma than she was. When he approached her the afternoon of game day, nodding briefly to her as he went into the locker room with the rest of his teammates as if everything was normal, she had no idea whether she was relieved or not.

He played, and played relatively well. She could tell that he wasn't putting in 100% of his thought or effort into it, but he was passable enough. The halftime show, though... That killed. Utterly and completely killed. Dave was just a small part of the overall success, but a part of it nonetheless. She couldn't even tell whether he was putting in his full concentration into the performance, or if he just had it down so well that he could sleepwalk (or zombie shuffle) through it and still make it look good.

When the fourth quarter ended and the crowd exploded into cheers, the Titans hugged and laughed, both factions mixed in so thoroughly that it would've been impossible to draw a single coherent line between them. And Dave was right there with them in the middle of it all.

For a moment, it was irrelevant that she could plainly see that he wasn't quite as enthusiastic as the others (why couldn't any else _see_ — although she did notice Kurt cast an odd glance at him from time to time). For a moment, she let her worries about Dave, his future, his _life_ , fall by the wayside, just a little.

Because at that moment, Dave Karofsky was a winner. He was part of something bigger than himself — and not just a football game. Her entire team, under _her_ guidance, pulled together when it counted.

And for that, she let herself feel a little bit of pride, for Dave and for all her boys.

They were champions.


	5. Season Two, Part Three

**Silly Love Songs**

The first detention after the game was an awkward affair, though Beiste expected that going in. It was as though Dave couldn't quite meet her eyes.

"You did good," she said, repeating her words from that evening. "The game, the show... You did good. I'm proud of you."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks." Dave's voice was a low rumble from deep in his chest, barely audible. His fingers were picking at each other.

Beiste sighed. "Dave, I meant what I said before. I won't tell anyone you don't want me to tell, not even your parents. I promise. But you need to get some kind of help."

"I don't need—" He sighed, an echo of Beiste's own. "Fuck, that sounds ridiculous even to me."

"Good, because I can't do this alone. I'm not equipped for this, and you need more than I can give you. Ms. Pillsbury—"

"No." The word came out with more force than anything he'd said since that fateful afternoon.

"Why not?"

Dave squirmed in his chair. "She... She and Mr. Schuester..."

"Ah." She didn't understand completely, but just enough. "Does anyone else... know?"

"Kurt. Hummel," Dave added unnecessarily. He snorted. "He knows. Fuck, does he know."

"Right. Then why I don't I do a little... research and get back to you. That way you don't have to do it yourself."

"Thanks." He licked his lips. "Coach—"

"Yeah?"

"I..." He swallowed; she could see his Adam's apple bob. "I don't know if... I—"

Beiste stood. "Here's what we're gonna do." She ripped a page out of her notebook and scribbled on it, then circled the desk and held the paper out to him. Dave stared at it, as if he'd never seen ruled green paper before. "This is my phone number and address. If you ever need to talk, call or drop by any time. _Any time_ , Dave, day or night. I mean it." He didn't move, but neither did she. "I'll be honest with you, kid: I'm worried about you, and I think you know why. You're one of my players; I've got a responsibility to you the same you do to me. Even if you'd rather deal with this alone, _I'll_ feel better knowin' that you have this option. Go ahead, take it." She smirked a little. "Before I order you to."

Slowly, painfully slowly and with a visible tremble, Dave's hand lifted, taking the paper from Beiste. He looked down at it for a moment, reading what was written there, before folding it up and putting it in his pocket. "Okay," he said in a near whisper. "Thanks."

Beiste just managed to keep her sigh of relief in her head.

Later that week, she summoned Kurt to her office. She knew she had to step lightly, but her options were limited, all things considered, and she was a little desperate. Her online resources would help, sure, but getting the perspective of an actual gay teenager who also lived in a small town would probably be a lot better. She just had to hope that she'd interpreted everything between them correctly — that she'd interpreted _Kurt_ correctly.

"Coach," he said with a nod.

"Kurt," she replied as he shut the door behind him. "Good job again with the halftime show."

"Thank you." He sat carefully and primly in the visitor's chair, such a difference from the lumbering gait of Dave Karofsky. Kurt was a lot more like what she'd been raised to expect out of gay men, which made his stint as her kicker all the more astonishing. But then, if she'd learned nothing else from these past months, from her online research, it was that there was a whole world of gay humanity out there, much wider than she'd ever imagined. It was actually a little dizzying. "But..." He frowned a little. "I don't expect you've asked me here just to congratulate me..."

"No. No, I haven't." Her voice lowered. "This is serious, kid. I need your help, but I'm also gonna need you to keep this under your hat."

"I am the soul of discretion," Kurt said airily; Beiste snorted, having heard a few remarks about Kurt's love of gossip during the football collaboration. Still, with _this_ , it could be different. She had to trust that it would be.

As she always did, Beiste did what she had to: she took the plunge. "What's it like to be gay?" Kurt's eyes widened in shock, and she hurriedly continued, "I'm not askin' for me. If you... if you knew a kid... your age... who was... y'know, gay... And he was havin' a hard time dealin' with it... Wasn't getting a lot of help at home..." It pained her to listen to herself, to her hesitation and verbal stumbling, but she was helpless to stop it. It was as though the rational part of her mind was watching in disbelief and contempt as the rest of it stumbled on like a drunken moose. "How would you help him? What could you show him and tell him that'd convince him he wasn't some kinda pervert...?"

"I don't suppose..." He was staring at her with a searching look that frankly made her uncomfortable. "This wouldn't be about...?"

She shook her head. "I don't wanna say, but I got a feeling you already know." She took a breath. "He says you do, anyway."

Kurt's eyes widened. "Then you—?" He quickly got hold of himself. "Well." He coughed. "I suppose... I suppose this is... good, isn't it? I mean, if you know, then he—"

"He's not doin' too good," Beiste said bluntly. She could actually see Kurt wilt a little, and that wonder came back. Then again, she supposed that he, more than anyone else in this school, would _know_ what Dave was going through. That kind of firsthand knowledge, that kind of connection, would be hard to ignore. "I don't think he's in any danger right now, but I'm just a football coach. I don't know anythin' about this kind of thing, and he doesn't have a lot of other places to go."

"No. No, he doesn't," Kurt said, and it sounded like he knew from experience. Beiste's heart ached, for both Kurt and Dave. "If he doesn't want to talk to Ms. Pillsbury..."

"He doesn't."

"Then I know a few websites that might help. I can send you links if you want."

"That'd be great. Thanks."

"Of course." Kurt started to rise, but hesitated, gently sinking back into the chair. "Coach..."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know if he wants to talk to me..." he said slowly, and she could hear the reluctance, as if his statement were also true in the reverse. "But if he needs someone... You know, who's been there..."

Beiste was proud that she managed not to gape at him. She just nodded. "Thanks. But 'til then, maybe I can kinda... play go-between if needed, y'know? Just so... I think ya both need a little distance on this. For a little while, anyway."

Kurt sighed in relief. "I agree. Thank you, Coach."

That afternoon, Dave was staring down at the printout that Beiste had just given him. "I dunno... My parents take a look at my computer every once in a while..."

"Use your phone," Beiste said bluntly. "I don't care, just at least take a look. Can't hurt."

"I guess not." His eyes didn't leave the paper, as if he were trying to use it to see those websites and videos right at that moment. "I'm not giving out my name, though. I mean, it's not like I'm one of a thousand Dave Karofskys out there."

"That's all right. Kurt said that most of the sites let ya be anonymous—" She choked off her words, but too late, much too late. Dave's head shot up.

"Th-these came from... Kurt?"

Ah, hell. No use denying it now. "Yeah. I asked him for some input."

"But... why?"

"Because I needed it," Beiste snapped in annoyance. "I told ya, I'm flying blind here—"

"No, I mean, why'd he help you? Did he not know why you were asking?"

"Well..." She hesitated, her mind working through a dozen — no, a hundred — different possible ways to answer, all of them coming up short. "Let's put it this way: like I told ya before, you're not alone in this, and I ain't the only one who doesn't want to see you do something stupid."

"I... I see. I think." Dave slumped a little in his chair, staring down at the paper in a kind of dazed wonder. "Everything I did..." he muttered under his breath, mostly at the paper — certainly not at Beiste. "Everything I did, and he still..." He shook his head. "God..."

Beiste supposed she could've said something, tried to ease his shame. But she had no idea if she could think of any way to, and wasn't even sure if doing so would be good for the kid anyway. So she simply let him be for now, and prayed to anyone or anything out there that could hear her thoughts that she was doing the right thing.

* * *

 **Comeback**

It was hard to get anything by Shannon Beiste — those instincts again. But the way that odd man was trying and failing to lurk about the gym and her office, it was difficult not to notice him. She might've tried to collar him as some kind of pervert, but the way he was sneaking about told of some familiarity with the campus. So instead she went to Principal Figgins.

"Ah, you met Coach Tanaka," he said heartily.

Beiste started. "Ken Tanaka?"

"Yes, he's finally out of physical therapy! He was wanting to see how the football team had fared in his absence."

"Well, I'd be glad to have a sit-down with him if he really wants to know..."

"I don't think that'll be necessary." Figgins grimaced, shifting in his chair. "I should tell you, Coach... He wants his old job back."

"What?!" Beiste barked; Figgins shrank back. "But I got a contract! I won a _championship_!"

"I know, I know," Figgins said hastily, "and we very much appreciate both! But Coach Tanaka is very... persistent. He is close to a few school board members. Of course, I will defend your right to stay..." _Of course you will,_ Beiste thought with a mental eye-roll. "... But should the worst happen, I assure you, you will have a place at McKinley regardless. Perhaps if you were willing to be an assistant...?" His words dribbled away as Beiste stormed out of the office, muttering darkly under her breath.

The storm clouds were still rumbling over her when Dave arrived for detention that afternoon, so thunderous that even Dave couldn't have failed to notice. "Coach...? Everything okay...?"

She was just about to form words along the lines of "Mind your own business, Karofsky," but stayed her tongue. She was expecting this kid to open up to her, to trust her — a lot. How could she ask him to do that, but shut him out in return?

Although what the hell could he do? And she was still the teacher here, and he still the student...

Dammit! Why did life have to be so goddamn complicated? Time was, her worst headache was making sure Hudson ran the right plays and didn't get bowled over three seconds after the snap. Those were good days.

She sighed. Oh, what the hell. "Your old coach is back." Dave's brow furrowed in puzzlement; oh, right, he wasn't a member of the football team then. "Ken Tanaka. He's gunnin' for his job back."

"What? Can he do that?"

"Figgins seems to think it's at least possible. He sounds like he's gonna make trouble either way." Beiste shrugged carelessly. "Bring it on. I happen to like it here, and I'm not gonna give up the team without a fight."

Dave had a thoughtful look on his face, which was mildly disturbing to Beiste. But she didn't ask; she had a feeling she wouldn't get much of an answer anyway.

The days that followed were... odd, to say the least. Even for this school, for these people, it was odd. Ken Tanaka was becoming much more open about stalking through the campus, making himself seen and known to the students and staff, including her, giving her a sneer as they passed in the halls. She was always sure to give him a glare back; she could take what he could dish out, and more.

The actual oddities started the Monday after Tanaka's reappearance. She was on her way to her office when she saw Sam Evans and Artie Abrams loitering in the hall. They were looking up and down the corridor in something like expectancy, though they hadn't spotted her yet. She was about to approach them when Ken Tanaka appeared on his daily "patrol," heading down one of the crossing hallways. Suddenly, the two young men sprang to life, their voices raised loudly — unnaturally loudly.

"Hey, have you seen Ms. Pillsbury?" Sam asked in a stilted cadence. Tanaka ground to a halt, his head whipping towards them. She had no idea what had grabbed his attention, but they had it nonetheless.

"Why, yes, I have!" Artie sounded much more natural, though even he was a little flatter in affect than normal. "She was talking to Mr. Schuester."

"They sure have been friendly lately, haven't they?" Tanaka turned beet red at this; Beiste watched from the shadow of some lockers in puzzlement.

"Yeah, I think he's going to ask her out soon!" Artie's eyes flickered over his shoulder, in Tanaka's general direction. "They sure like each other, don't they?" Tanaka stomped away. Artie and Sam grinned at each other, exchanged a high five, and hurried off. It was the damnedest thing.

It was even stranger when the scene repeated again, this time with Mike Chang and Finn Hudson: similar waiting in the halls, similar much too loud conversation about Emma Pillsbury and Will Schuester begun when Ken Tanaka was in sight. This time, she approached her players, to question them about this weird behavior, but they saw her first, and scurried away before she could stop them. She was beginning to become seriously annoyed.

Things made a little more sense two days later in the teacher's lounge. She could hear raised voices within, even halfway down the hall.

"Seriously, Emma? You and _him_?"

"I'm sorry, Ken, I didn't—"

"Is _this_ why you stopped visiting me in the hospital?"

"I told you why already! I just wasn't equipped to—"

"I know what you told me. But it was all a lie, wasn't it?"

"Coach, please—"

"Shut up, Schuester! At least now I know why you shoved me down the stairs!"

"That was an accident, I swear—!"

"Ken, you're making a scene!"

"Oh, am I? You know, one reason I wanted to come back here was because of you, but now I see that was a huge mistake! You can keep her, Schuester. You two deserve each other."

The door burst open just as Beiste's hand reached out for the handle. Ken Tanaka came charging out; she could almost see the steam coming out of his ears and nostrils. He took no notice of her, his footfalls echoing with their impact, as he disappeared around a corner. Beiste slowly turned to the open door, where Emma and Will were staring out with unreadable expressions, along with a scattering of other teachers with shell-shocked, uncomfortable looks.

Figgins told her later that day that Tanaka had abruptly announced his intention to move to Oregon.

Beiste realized she'd have to be selective about who she demanded answers from. She decided on Mike Chang, and she was not disappointed.

"We didn't want Coach Tanaka back," he babbled, as if letting go of a reservoir of words that had built up within him. "He and Ms. Pillsbury used to date, so we figured..."

"Uh huh. And how'd you know about him wantin' to come back in the first place?"

"Well... Karofsky told us."

She wasn't a stupid woman; she'd half expected that answer. Yet it was still a little startling. "And you went along with this?"

"Like I said, we didn't want him back. He never got us anywhere, and you won us a championship."

"I mean, you all don't like Karofsky."

"Yeah, well..." Mike rubbed the back of his neck. "He's not that bad these days. And... we felt like we owed you. For what happened before. We wanted to make up for it."

She really should have disciplined the lot of them. It never did any good when students messed with their elders like that. But hell, how could she?

Beiste was torn that afternoon when Dave arrived for detention. Should she thank him? He really shouldn't have been blabbering about her business to his teammates, after all. But she still had her job, thanks in part to him. On the other hand, she knew from experience that Karofsky wasn't exactly the most appreciative of compliments. But weren't those the kinds of people who most needed them?

In the end, she decided to go the "manly" route: when they next met, she simply nodded. A glint of comprehension shone in his eye; he nodded back, then sat at the table to start on his homework without another word.

Yeah, the touchy-feely stuff could be necessary, but she appreciated this kind of simplicity sometimes.

Eventually, he addressed it on his own, as she predicted he would. "You're the only one," he said softly out of the blue about forty minutes later, grabbing her attention from her notebook. "You're the only one I can talk to."

"About what?" she asked mildly.

"About..." He gulped. "You know."

"No, I don't. Explain like I'm a dummy."

Dave glared. "You know what I mean."

Beiste sighed, shutting her notebook. "Okay, fine, I do, but I shouldn't be the only one. Have you been lookin' for someone else?"

"Yeah, but it's hard. I mean, it's Lima, the middle of bugfuck nowhere Midwest. Who'd I talk to, Father Mitchell?"

Just the mention of the man caused her muscles to tense. "You know there's someone else. Someone who's been where you are..."

Dave snorted. "Yeah, and whose fault was that?"

"Not just yours."

He shook his head, harder than necessary. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't," he said. "And I still feel really weird just talking about it."

"Talking about what?" Beiste asked with exaggerated innocence.

"You know!" Dave sputtered. "The... the way I feel about... things." He waved an arm at nothing in particular. "The... stuff."

Beiste shook her head. "You know you gotta talk about it sooner or later. And in actual words instead of all this pussyfootin'."

"Yeah? I'd rather just pretend it never happened."

"If it were just you that suffered when you did that, maybe I'd let you," she said pointedly. Dave deflated a little; Beiste wasn't sure how much pity she felt at that. "But y'know, you're further along than you think, especially compared to where you were before. I mean, at least you're not denying it anymore." Dave looked startled, as if this simple fact had never occurred to him. "And I know, and so does Kurt. That means that technically, you're an out gay man."

A look of horror stamped itself onto Dave's face. "Shit..."

"But you should be proud of that. Admittin' the truth like that to me, that was a big step. You're gettin' there, Dave. Seriously." She scratched her chin. "Even if you're not proud of yourself, I am."

"S-seriously?"

"Uh huh. I am. I expect a lot outta you, Dave, because I think you got a lot in you. I hope you at least believe that."

Dave didn't answer. He just stared down at the homework in front of him, but she had no doubt he wasn't thinking about Chinese history. She waited for several minutes for a reply, but when none came, she went back to her own work, and let him muse on whatever it was his mind was musing on.

* * *

 **Sexy**

"You got something on your mind, Karofsky?"

"Uh..." Of course he did; he'd been silent and skittish all afternoon.

"Spit it out already. Life's too short to be wastin' on doubts."

"O-okay." He took a deep breath. "IwanttoapologizetoKurt."

"You...?" She took a moment to repeat the rush of words in her head, separating them into understandable components. "Okay... Apologize for what?"

"Well... Everything. But especially..." He half turned away. "You know how I kissed him?" he muttered, so low and so quickly that she almost didn't catch it.

"Yes?" she said evenly.

"I shouldn't have. He didn't want it. He didn't even know it was coming."

"Was that all you did?"

Dave looked up in horror. "Wha—? Yes! What else...?" The sentence choked off; he wiped his brow. "Shit, I didn't even think... God, no wonder he was so... Fuck, I _really_ need to apologize now..."

"I agree. So why now?"

"I've actually been thinking about it for a long time," he said, "but I've been too chickenshit. Besides, I figured he'd never want me in the same county ever again, but ever since you told me about him giving you those links, I've been getting up the nerve, and..." He shrugged. "I think I finally have it."

Beiste nodded. "Okay, then. How about here? I can be here to make sure everything goes smooth."

"Yeah. I think we'd both want that." Beiste had no doubt he was right.

Getting Kurt to agree was easier than she'd anticipated, though her promise to be present was most likely a big factor. As it was, when the time for the meeting came, neither of them would look the other in the eye, even though they were sitting only a few feet away from each other. Beiste sighed. "Okay, boys, we're supposed to be here to—" She almost said "kiss and make up," but she managed to stop herself in time. "... Bury the hatchet, so let's at least pretend we can get along, okay?"

Kurt was the first to act. "You're absolutely right, Coach." He made a big show of scooting his chair to face Dave, the metal legs groaning as they scraped against the floor. Dave flinched, but gamely turned his own body so he was facing Kurt.

What followed was silence. Beiste saw Dave open his mouth, then close it again, at least four times. Twice, he got out a single word: "I..." But that word was never followed up on.

Beiste kept her own silence, until finally, Kurt said, in a much gentler tone than she'd expected, "You wanted to tell me something, David?"

"I'm sorry!" The words burst out with the suddenness and force of a thunderbolt, as if let loose from a pressure cooker by Kurt's prodding. "I'm sorry that I Slushied you and shoved you into lockers and called you names. I shouldn't have done any of it." The words were running out like a dam breach; Beiste doubted Dave could've stopped if he wanted to. He took a deep breath. "And I'm sorry I kissed you." Considering all of his problems speaking plainly before, the firmness and volume of that sentence surprised Beiste. "I could try to explain what I was thinking, but I don't think you care. You didn't want me to kiss you, and I shouldn't have. Honestly, I can't believe you didn't just out me, because I would've deserved it. I haven't deserved your silence." He exhaled, long and slow. "So that's it. I've got nothing else that could possibly make it right. I mean, what else is there but I'm sorry? You have no reason to forgive me, or even believe me, but—"

"Actually, that's where you're wrong," Kurt interrupted in a clipped tone. "I do have reason. I've been watching you closely, for obvious reasons. You haven't bullied me or anyone else in the glee club for quite a while now — though I assume I have the coach here to partly thank for that." He gave a nod towards Beiste. "And I could tell your collaboration with us during the championship game was..." He paused for consideration. "... Genuine. I believe your apology is too." He regarded Dave for a long moment before continuing. "Look, David, Coach Beiste hasn't told me a lot, but I'm concerned about you."

"Why?!" The word carried the shocked explosiveness of a shotgun blast.

"Because I'm a gay man like you." Dave sucked in a sharp breath at just the words. "I've been where you are, believe it or not, and it wasn't pleasant. I won't pretend to know exactly what you're going through, but I can imagine, maybe better than most, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone." _Not even you_. Beiste wondered if she was the only one to hear those words unsaid. "Even if we're not friends, I don't want us to be enemies anymore." He extended a hand. "I accept your apology, David. Truce?"

There was only a second's hesitation before Dave's beefy hand shot out, wrapping itself around Kurt's firmly and shaking. "Truce." Beiste nodded approvingly as the two let go.

Kurt, however, wasn't done. "There is one thing..."

Dave licked his lower lip. "Yeah?"

"You don't have to do this, but I'd appreciate it, and it'd go a long way to show that you're genuinely trying to change..."

A flash of old irritation came over Dave's face. "Get to the point already."

"Okay, okay, fine. I want to do something to make sure no gay kid at McKinley has to go through what I — or you — went through. I want to start a PFLAG organization here. That's Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. I'd do it myself, but it's a big job for just one person, and honestly, McKinley has demonstrated that it'll easily overlook or belittle my efforts." Beiste winced, but couldn't argue. "If you got involved—"

Dave's eyes widened in alarm. "Me?! But I'm not all that popular these days either..."

"More so than me. And with your size, people at least take you seriously." Kurt leaned forward earnestly; Dave actually scooted back a little. Interesting. "It'll help you too, you know. You'll learn so much about yourself and people like us. It'll ease the shame and the guilt. You need to be educated, David. You need to learn there's nothing wrong with you, and this'll help."

"I..." Dave's eyes flickered back and forth between Beiste and Kurt. "I... dunno..."

"How about this, then," Beiste cut in. "If you go ahead with this, I'll be the club's faculty adviser. That way, I can keep an eye on you, and I'll tell anyone who'll listen that I'm making you do it as a condition of you remaining on the football team." She folded her hands in front of her. "I agree with Kurt: I think gettin' to know yourself and the kinds of people who'll support you will do ya nothing but good."

"It's pretty obvious you don't know what to do or where to turn, David," Kurt said softly. "This is a chance to get the guidance you need, and I'm willing to be a part of it, provided you make at least a token effort. What do you say?"

As expected, Dave didn't answer straightaway. Beiste and Kurt waited patiently as his eyes stared at something distant... perhaps nothing at all. Finally, he nodded — slowly, as if his neck were arthritic, but nodded all the same. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Okay. If Coach says she's making me do it."

"Marvelous!" Kurt said with a grin. "I'll start putting together plans, and I'll get in contact with Coach Beiste when they're ready. Don't worry, I won't get you involved in all the initial grunt work." He stood, extending his hand once more. "It'll be a pleasure working with you, David."

Dave stared at the hand for a second before shaking it, this shake much briefer and limper than the previous. "Yeah," he said, as if in a daze, "same here."

He sat in the chair for a long while, long after Kurt made his goodbyes and left. Beiste simply did some work, waiting for whatever emotional storm was raging inside Dave to calm. Finally, he stood, his knees wobbly.

"You okay?" she asked.

Dave nodded dumbly as he wiped his hands on his jeans. "Yeah. I... I think so."

"I think that went pretty good." Dave's face didn't betray much; he still looked a little shell-shocked. "Tell ya what: I think you've earned your freedom for today. Go on home."

Dave nodded again, and picked up his backpack. He was halfway to the door when he turned back on his heel. "Thank you, Coach," he said. "Thank you so much for helping me. I... I don't know what would've happened if it weren't for you, and I... Just... Thanks."

Beiste returned his nod. "You're welcome, Dave. But you can thank me by taking what Kurt and I tell ya seriously. I'm not sayin' you don't have reason to worry..." The specter of Dave's mother floated in her head; God, what would that woman do if she knew...? "... But what you don't have to be is afraid or disgusted with yourself. It doesn't do anyone any good, and it's a lot of bull anyway. There's nothin' wrong with being gay, no matter what your— no matter what you're told. Just remember that, okay?"

"I'll... I'll try. Thanks again." Dave left, but Beiste saw his shadow for a long time afterward.

This, she thought, was a big reason she became a teacher.

She hoped to God the rest of it would go more smoothly.

* * *

 **Born This Way**

Shannon Beiste had learned more about the homosexual community in the past few months than she'd learned the entirety of her life previous — at least, accurate information. The more she read, the more Dave's skittishness and Kurt's empathy made sense. When one felt that isolated, that under siege, especially from one's own family...

Not that it excused what Dave had done, of course, but it at least took his actions out of the realm of mindless and malicious bullying. It also meant that he could be... no, not "fixed," not with all the negative connotations that word carried where homosexuality was concerned, but... Reformed? Better.

Beiste had always been a firm believer in the old adage "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem." And damn if she didn't feel that acutely when it came to Dave and Kurt. It was so easy to stick her head in the sand, like last year, to see what kids — even her own players — did to Kurt and to ignore it, because "boys will be boys" and she didn't want to "make waves" at her first major coaching job. Did she, on some deep level, think that Kurt deserved it — for being gay, for acting the way he did? She hoped not. Not that she could be excused either way any more than Dave could.

She was just about to check in on one of her preferred message boards — one with an entire forum for straight relatives and authority figures to discuss issues particular to gay teenagers — when Dave burst into the office. He was panting, as though he'd run all the way, and his eyes were wide and wild. "Coach! I need to talk!"

Immediately, nothing else existed besides Dave. She nodded towards the chair; he sat, heavily. "What's the matter?"

"I'm being blackmailed."

Well. That definitely wasn't anything like anything she'd expected him to say. But it at least explained his panic. "By who? Over what?" She winced at that last question; of _course_ it would have to be about that, unless he'd killed someone and forgotten to mention it...

"Santana. Santana Lopez." She vaguely remembered the name from the glee club collaboration; wasn't that one of the Cheerios who was also part of New Directions? "She _knows_." Dave as much as hissed the last word.

"How?" In contrast to Dave's panic, she felt nothing but ice in her veins. But then, it was easy for her to be calm — she wasn't the one being blackmailed.

Dave flushed. "Not important," he muttered. "But she says she'll... she'll out me if I don't do what she tells me." He gulped. "And she really will."

Beiste had heard enough whispers about Santana's Sylvester-like ruthlessness to agree. "And what does she want?"

"To win prom queen."

"Are you serious?!" Beiste sputtered. "She's blackmailing you for _that_?"

Dave shrugged helplessly. "She wants it, so she's willing to go balls out for it. That's what she does."

"You want me to have a talk with her?"

"No! If she thinks I can't help her, she might just out me for the fun of it!"

God, what the hell was it with this school? Was it something in the water? Beiste rubbed her temples. "Right, your rep." That was just one of the things that made a whole lot more sense now that she knew the truth. She was about to ask about his friends, but remembered that they'd talked about that very topic, not to mention what she overheard Dave's former best friend Azimio say... "You're afraid you'll be treated..."

"The way they treat Kurt. The way _I_ treated Kurt," he said bitterly. "Yeah. Then there's my mom..."

Beiste nodded grimly. Even if she had her own opinions about what the students at McKinley could or would do (especially if Kurt got his own friends involved), she knew enough about Dave's mother firsthand to know that she was a serious obstacle. "I understand. Look, I dunno that you have a lot of options here. Can you do what she's asking you to do?"

Dave paused in thought. "I think so. It's nothing too bad... yet."

"Then if you don't want me to stop her, and you don't want her to out you... I'm not sure you have a lotta choice right now. Maybe you should at least play along for now until you get a better sense of what she's planning — at least give yourself some time to think things through."

Dave nodded slowly. "Yeah... Yeah, I think you're right." He heaved his own heavy sigh; it was at least half groan. He slid down in the chair far enough for his head to rest against the top of its back. "Fuck my life," he muttered.

"Have you checked out any of the boards and websites Kurt and me gave you?"

"Yeah, a little. But..." He straightened in his chair. "I still feel better talking with you, y'know? 'Cause I know you won't tell anyone or judge me... At least not any more than you already have."

Beiste was flattered, to be sure, but once more felt the weight of the responsibility she held. Stories she'd read of the consequences of failure — of suicides and runaways and drug addiction — swirled through her head.

Ah, heck, it wasn't like she didn't go into this with her eyes wide open. And this was her job as a teacher, like it or not. She knew that too. She knew it wouldn't be easy.

She just never imagined it'd be quite _this_ tough to be a molder of young minds.

"Well, thank you, Dave," she said sincerely. "But there's only so much I can do. You gotta find other people to help. You gotta be able to help yourself."

"I know." And it did sound like he did know, like he carried his own burden.

But then, she knew all too well that he did.

* * *

 **Rumours**

The first thing Shannon Beiste looked for in the "all new, all gossip" Muckraker was a particular name. She didn't see it, thank God, but with the participation of both Sue Sylvester and Azimio Adams, the possibility was there; she could only imagine what Dave had gone through in the days leading up to its publication.

In fact, nobody seemed to be thinking much of Dave at all. It was as though he basically ceased to exist to most of the McKinley student body, even his fellow football players, especially now that the season was over and he'd stopped the bullying activities. Hell, if it weren't for the occasional prom court campaign poster, she doubted anyone would've remembered his name at all. It was most obvious when she observed Dave in the halls. Where once peers would either nod in his direction when he passed — or else ducked out of the way — entire crowds would breeze by him without so much as a second glance.

This, in fact, had been somewhat of a sore spot to Santana, according to Dave. She'd even started up a "club" called the Bully Whips to raise both their profiles and get "the loser vote," as she'd so charmingly put it to her faux boyfriend. Dave actually seemed to be taking the duty seriously, though, which was a relief; Beiste had even shortened the term of his detention on the basis of his participation.

Still, it was odd how quickly and completely Dave seemed to melt into the general student body of McKinley. If nothing else, his size alone should've at least given him a little prominence, right? Dave just shrugged when she asked him about it. "I guess I'm just used to it," he said, in a neutral enough tone that Beiste actually had no idea how he really felt about it. "Besides, now that I... I _know_... it's kind of a relief, y'know? I'm not feeling like I have to watch myself all the time... It's kind of a load off my mind."

That Beiste could understand. Many a day had passed in her own high school life when she yearned for invisibility. Then again, nobody noticing could feel an awful lot like nobody caring, which could be pretty damn damaging to one's self-image. There was a reason why Dave embraced being a bully so readily to begin with — at least then, he was _someone_.

"Hell, I'm kind of surprised nobody's come after me for payback — especially Z." He shook his head sadly. "All those years..." He looked up at her. "You have something to do with that?"

Beiste smiled serenely. "I don't have any idea what you're talkin' about." Dave just snorted.

As it turned out, there was another reason Dave was able to cope — one Beiste found out about purely by accident. She was in the library during lunch one day, looking for a book on Vince Lombardi, when a familiar voice caught her ear. It was low and soft, but it was emanating from the other side of the shelves she was browsing, so she immediately placed the speaker.

"And what would your father think?" Kurt Hummel asked.

Gently, she shifted a book aside. She could barely see the broad back of David Karofsky facing her, sitting at a study table, with Kurt on the other side. Both were hunched over, as if skittish Serengeti animals ready for flight from a lion. _Huh._ She knew that the two had begun to meet to discuss the PFLAG group, but it didn't feel like it was the topic of conversation at the moment...

There was no answer to the question from Dave, not at first. Kurt waited, quite patiently, until Dave's voice, even lower than Kurt's, spoke. "I don't know. He's never been big on church or religion like Mom. But he grew up in Ohio, and really loves my mom, and he lets her take the lead on a lot of stuff, so..." His shoulders trembled. "I don't know," he repeated in a broken voice.

"I see." An abiding sadness seemed to pass over Kurt's face; Beiste wondered what he was thinking about. His own family, his own life, perhaps?

"I know I'm just being a huge coward still..."

"No, no, you're not. I completely understand your need for caution. Blaine told you about what happened at his old school, right?" Now there was a name totally unfamiliar to Beiste. Some student she hadn't met yet?

"... Yeah."

"Then you know he understands the consequences of being out, and so do I." He hesitated; Beiste wondered if he was considering saying something about Dave's role in those consequences. She might have, if she were him, and the mood was properly vicious. "This is something you have to decide for yourself. Blaine and I can't tell you the right time; only you know your life, and what you think you can handle."

"I'm just so scared..." Dave rasped in a near whisper. "Ever since... For such a long time... I've been nothing but scared. And I'm scared of being scared... I'm afraid that I'll never be not scared... That I'll never..." He was shaking harder now. "Come out..." Those last two words were only just audible, even to Beiste, who was only a couple of feet away.

Kurt started to reach out, then pulled back, hesitating. Finally, he leaned forward, and simply rubbed one of Dave's trembling forearms. His shaking lessened, though it did not cease. "Listen to yourself," he said. "That you're even _thinking_ about coming out, that you're acknowledging this thing about yourself, even just a little... It's a huge step. Hell, you're here, talking willingly with me, McKinley's resident fag."

Dave's head jolted up sharply. "Don't call yourself that," he hissed.

Kurt smiled; it carried a hint of smugness. "And then there's that. I don't know about you, but I'd call all of that progress. It's light years away from where you were before."

Dave snorted. "Santana says that I'll get married to a woman and have to sneak around in men's bathrooms."

Kurt's face darkened. "She's a conniving bitch you should pay no attention to." He displayed no surprise at her name coming up; Beiste supposed Dave must've told him about the blackmail. She wondered what else Dave was telling Kurt. "I have every confidence that someday — maybe not soon, but someday — you'll have the confidence to be who you really are. You've seen what it's like on our side of the door; you can't ignore it anymore."

"Wish I had your confidence," Dave muttered; Beiste wondered which of the possible layers he meant.

"You've hit your low, David; I think you know that now. There's nowhere to go but up." Kurt looked so earnest, so sincere, it was almost sickening. "It's all you, you know. You're winning me over. You're proving to me you can be someone better. I wouldn't have thought it of you before, but every day, every time you open up to me or Blaine, you're proving it."

"I..." Dave shook his head, almost viciously. "I don't..." His voice turned tight and moist.

"David... Dave, it's okay..."

For the first time, Beiste felt like she was intruding. She quickly strode away, muffling her footsteps as best she could.

So Kurt and Dave were talking. That had to be good. For how long had this been going on? She supposed it wasn't any of her business. Only it involved one of her players and an ex-player; that made it at least partially her business.

But at any rate, it sounded like the number of people who knew Dave's secret was slowly inching up: Kurt, Santana, whoever this Blaine was. Beiste couldn't help that, at least overall, this was a good thing.

She hoped and prayed it was a good thing.

* * *

 **Prom Queen**

Beiste's Saturday nights were rarely anything special — not that she minded, generally. She did enough during the week that the weekend was a welcome respite, a chance to unwind before getting into sports on Sunday and starting the whole rat race over again on Monday.

She tried not to think about how many Saturdays had passed for her, all almost exactly the same. It wasn't like she was lonely, most of the time; she accepted much about herself, and one of them was the fact that she was likely to be alone for a good long time.

Not that that bothered her... Usually. She didn't _need_ a man in her life to make it whole or meaningful. Plenty of other women didn't. Sure, a boyfriend, a lover, would be... _nice_ , but not a requirement.

Certainly not. She had her career. She had her team. She had her dreams. Those were enough.

Usually.

It was getting late — around 11 or so — when Beiste's Saturday night stopped being ordinary. Her doorbell guaranteed that.

The sound of it actually startled her; she sat bolt upright on the couch. She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard it chime... It had to be that UPS delivery two months ago. For someone to be ringing it at this hour...

The bell rang again, and then again almost immediately.

Beiste scrambled to her feet and stalked over to the door. By the time she reached it, it had already rung for a fourth time. It was in the middle of a fifth when she looked through the peephole and saw, warped by the curvature of the glass, the round face of Dave Karofsky.

"Dave...?" She threw the door open, and her concern deepened.

He was red faced and bleary eyed. He was dressed in a formal suit, shirt halfway out of his pants, his tie hanging half undone around his neck. She was mildly surprised to smell no alcohol on him; if she'd been asked, she would've said he was drunk.

But no, the tear tracks on his face told a different story.

"C-coach..." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, "I know it's late, but I didn't know where else to go, I couldn't go home, and you said anytime—"

Beiste immediately stepped aside. "And I meant it. Come in. You look like you need someone to talk to." She watched him stumble inside as she shut the door behind him. "Sit down anywhere." He chose the couch, flopping onto it so hard that he actually bounced. "Do you want some water?" He nodded dumbly. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a clean glass from the dish rack, watching Dave closely as she filled it from the tap. The light from the TV was playing across his face in muted blues, but he wasn't watching the movie — more like staring at it.

She returned to his side, offering the glass. He snatched it up and gulped it down so greedily she was briefly afraid he'd drown himself. Wiping his lips off on the back of a trembling hand, he put the glass down onto the coffee table as Beiste sat beside him.

"Dave?" she asked, as if coaxing a kitten out from under a car. "What's wrong? What happened?"

It all came out of Dave in a dizzying rush; trying to remember it all afterward, only a few words out of many stood out, but they were enough. "Tonight was the junior prom..." She barely remembered that; she wasn't on the chaperone list, and she had little desire to see Dave and Santana up on that stage, in each other's arms dancing... It would've been just too sad, and she didn't trust herself not to call the girl out in front of everybody. "Kurt was there too with his boyfriend..." Blaine — she found out who he was only a couple of weeks previous when Kurt told her he was visiting McKinley for the glee club's Lady Gaga performance. She'd wanted to ask Kurt when Blaine had met Dave, but she didn't want to pry too much; they still didn't know she'd overheard them in the library. "I won prom king, and Kurt... Kurt... He..." This was the point in the story at which Beiste felt her stomach bury itself in her intestines. A feverish anger raged through her. If she ever found out who did this... Hell, if she even found out who _one_ of those voters was, she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. "Kurt was... He was so... He said it was okay if I didn't dance with him, he said he'd understand if I didn't want to, but I wanted to, I wanted to so fucking bad..."

By now, Dave was bent over nearly double, chest brushing his legs, growing more fetal by the second. Beiste rubbed his back. His breathing, while harsh, was at least regular; she didn't hear him cry, but she had a feeling he'd already done plenty of that. Maybe he finally had no tears left.

After long minutes, Dave started to straighten, slowly and painfully. His eyes were moist; they pooled over every time he blinked. So maybe he had a few tears still left to shed. He finally managed to squeak out the rest of his story. "After I left, I just... drove around for a while. I didn't know what to do, but then I remembered what you said and I had your address in my phone, so..." He shrugged, a gesture so casual Beiste almost laughed. "Here I am."

Beiste nodded. "Good judgment. I'll do whatever I can to help." If only she knew what that was. Her hand was still rubbing soothing circles on Dave's back; she could feel the rock hard muscle tensed underneath her fingers. "That school is gonna feel a hammer comin' down on Monday." Dave was still silent. She considered talking about how she never went to any of her proms, but who knew how useful that would be; Dave was probably wishing he'd never gone to begin with. She sighed. "What do you need, Dave?"

He abruptly leaned back, so quickly she barely had time to snatch her hand away. Dave groaned, staring up at the ceiling. "I don't know," he said. "I just..." A glint ran down his cheek. "I feel like such a fucking coward. You always talk to us about being strong, but when I had a chance to man up, dance with Kurt the way I should have... I just ran. I just left him there..."

"Stop it right there," Beiste snapped. "I've told you this, and I'll bet Kurt's told you this too: you ain't some kind of coward just because you don't come out. You've got your family and your safety to think about. Yeah, some people say you should just ignore all that, but they're the kinda people it was easy for. For you, I _know_ it's not easy — I've met your mom, remember?" Dave tilted his head in her direction, but didn't say anything. "Manning up doesn't mean ignorin' the consequences of what you do. That's just plain dumb and suicidal. You gotta do what's right for you, and if that meant not comin' out in front of your entire class, that's okay. Remember, Kurt told ya the same thing, and he's about as out as you can get!"

"I know. That's why he's a better person than—"

"Oh, boy, I'm not gonna tell him you said that, 'cause I don't want him to kick your ass. His life ain't yours, and he'd be the first to tell you that. Just 'cause it works for him doesn't mean it'll work for you — and it doesn't mean you're some kinda coward. So maybe you'll wait 'til college. Or after. As long as you don't go tryin' to marry a woman, who cares? You gotta be right with it, 'cause that's the only person who matters in this whole sorry mess." She was starting to regurgitate much of what she'd read in her research, but she didn't really care. If it weren't for those faces and usernames on those websites and message boards, she had to admit she'd be totally out to sea right now, likely blundering in the way she'd blundered in the beginning — if she knew there was a problem at all. She also knew she was being too hard on herself still, but dammit, how was this kid's agony not clear to every single person in his life?

Then again, if Dave Karofsky was good at one thing, it was hiding. There was so much of himself he was hiding: his intelligence, his interests, his sexuality... It was a little off-putting to realize that a lot of his public persona at school was nothing but a bunch of lies; sometimes she wondered if anyone — even Dave — really knew how much.

It took a while — during which the movie on TV ended and another began without either of them noticing — but slowly, Dave's eyes dried, and his breathing evened out. His stomach actually growled. He laughed at that — small and pained, but he did laugh. "I guess I got my appetite back," he said. "I kinda lost it... after..."

"Gotcha." Beiste clapped him on the back. "How are you feelin' now?"

Dave's eyes closed, as if taking stock. They opened after a few seconds, steady but still with residual redness. "Not falling apart anymore. Not right now, anyway."

"Okay, well, that's progress. But I'm serious, Dave, you gotta get some help. Professional type help, I mean. Am I gonna have to hogtie you and drive you to a therapist myself?"

Dave snorted, not without some good humor. "I know, I know. It's just hard, 'cause I can't pay for anything myself, and the bills can't go to my parents..."

"Right. But there's ways to get help for free, even in Lima. Hell, you got the whole Internet out there, if you have to. But I'd still prefer knowin' that I'm not your only place to turn if things get bad."

"Oh, you're not, believe me." Beiste wondered if he was thinking of Kurt, and if so, why he didn't just say so. Just another item on the "Dave Karofsky question list," she supposed. "But I know what you mean. I'll try." He sighed. "It's not like I don't have a ton of shit to get off my chest anyway."

"That's the spirit. You need self-respect, Dave; your opinion of yourself's the one that matters most. How can you 'be a man' if you don't think you're one? If you don't look out for yourself, if you don't think you're worth savin'... Who will?"

Dave nodded absently, wiping at his face with his hands. "Yeah, yeah, greatest love of all and all that shit." Now the kid was making offhanded references to songs she knew from when she was young? Maybe that was Kurt's influence. "I just... I can't think about it right now. It's too much..."

"I understand. Then why don't we take care of what we can take care of?" Beiste rose. "Right now, I'm hungry too. How about we hit the McDonald's drive-thru? Hell, I'll even pay."

"That... actually sounds pretty good right now. I'll drive." On their way out, Dave paused — rather at a inconvenient time: in the front doorway. Beiste actually had to skid to a stop to keep from running into him. "Coach...?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Beiste may have been expanding her personal horizons, but that didn't mean she felt comfortable, or particularly liked, dealing with a lot of emotions, especially on such a regular basis. "You're one of my players; I gotta watch out for ya. It's my job."

"Well... Thanks anyway."

"Sure. Now get your butt in gear; I'm starving."

Dave chuckled. "Yes, ma'am."

Sure, a Big Mac and fries wouldn't solve anything — except the immediate hunger issue, of course. But still, it was a little bit of normalcy, a brief respite from emotional turmoil and deep questions about the future. It was easy to relax when their biggest problem was forgetting which McDonald's had the 24 hour drive thru.

Beiste had no illusions such a state would or could last. Neither, she was sure, did Dave. But that just made that hour, before Dave finally wished her good night and went home, all the more precious.

* * *

 **New York**

"What'cha doing, Dave?"

Dave nearly jumped, the phone flipping over in his hands. "N-nothing!" he said as he hastily threw some papers over it.

Beiste snickered, shaking her head. "Kids. You think you're so smooth. C'mon, what is it?"

He sighed, plucking out his phone, and opened up the browser. It was Kurt Hummel's Facebook page.

"He's with the glee club in New York," he said, pointing to a photo of Kurt and Rachel Berry in front of some landmark. "They're gonna be in a big competition tomorrow, and I was wondering how they were doing."

"How he was doing, you mean," Beiste said with a gentle smile.

Dave reddened. "We've been talking. About the PFLAG group. He's been..." He shook his head. "He's been cool. A lot cooler than I would've been if I were him."

Beiste pulled up a chair and sat next to Dave, who was staring down at the photo of the smiling Kurt on his screen. "Can I ask you something, Dave?"

"Can I stop you?"

Beiste laughed. "Yeah, actually, you can. I don't wanna push..."

"Hell, why not? You've done enough for me. Go ahead."

She took a deep breath. "How... how do you feel about Kurt?"

Dave didn't answer immediately, which she expected. He didn't even answer in the next minute, which also wasn't surprising. Finally, his shoulders heaved in a huge sigh. "He's been cool," he repeated. "Really... I..." He shook his head again, this time more violently. "I think I..."

"You...?" Beiste prompted. He didn't reply. "Care about him?"

Dave was the one who inhaled sharply this time, but he actually answered. "Yeah. Sure. That's a good way to put it."

 _Oh boy_. Beiste couldn't help but be a little proud and impressed; Dave had actually, in his own way, admitted to being attracted to another boy. That wasn't insignificant, especially given how long he'd spent in denial. Maybe saying out loud just that one time irrevocably opened the floodgates? Either way, though, that didn't change the fact that this little revelation just made everything stickier. "Dave... You should kinda go lightly here..."

"I know that!" he snapped. "He's got a boyfriend already, and not only did I bully him, I'm so screwed up in the head that... God, it'd be a disaster." He poked at his now black phone screen with a finger; the photo of Kurt returned in full color. "And it's not like I'd be able to be seen with him in public or anything. He wouldn't stand for that." His eyes were still locked on the digital photo. "He shouldn't."

"How're things going at home?" The change in topic was jarring, but deliberately so, especially since it was probably the only subject that would get Dave's mind off Kurt.

Dave shook his head. "Nothing new. I've stopped going to St. Luke's. My mom's on my case about it, especially since she thinks I need more of it because I was fighting. But I can't... I can't go back there. I can't listen to Father Mitchell talk about..." He swallowed. "... People like me like that."

"Good, you shouldn't. Just a bunch of bunk, all of it." Beiste was never the most religious person, which just made her early life that much more difficult; she couldn't help but think now, though, that it was most fortunate for Dave right now. "I'm glad you're making proactive decisions. Keep it up. The more active you are, the better off you'll be. Just like the football field; you gotta just keep reaching for the goal line, whatever it takes."

"Yeah. Been thinking a lot about that. I was even thinking of transferring..."

Beiste blinked owlishly. Conflicting emotions roiled in her gut. "Transferring? Why?"

"Just..." He shrugged helplessly. "Get away, y'know? Make a fresh start. Not have to face the guys I used to hang with. Thought that might make it easier."

"To come out?"

"Maybe. Or hide." He rubbed his forehead. "But I couldn't. It'd just raise more red flags with my parents, and I couldn't leave the team." Beiste had no doubt that "the team" was never a factor. Maybe Kurt, maybe her, but the team? It was such a transparent lie that she halfway considered calling him on it. If that was his idea of deception, he was in big trouble. "I mean, I'd be escaping a lot, but I'd also be running away from the only people who know and understand what I..." He broke off, turning away from her for a moment as he wiped his eyes. When his gaze returned to her, it was clear and dry, as far as she could tell. "Hey, Coach? Are you running any summer football practices?"

Beiste laughed. "What, you're not tired of me already?"

Dave grinned. "It's not that. It's just that I want to make sure I'm good enough for the team next year. And since my detention's almost over..."

She let him have his excuses. Why not? "Yeah, I'll be running a few clinics here and there. You're welcome to join if ya want."

"Yeah. I do. Thanks."

The thanks wasn't for the football — of that she was reasonably sure. "No problem."

Another school year over, and she still felt like Dave was walking a razor's edge. But at the same time, there was precious reason to hope. She hadn't failed him yet. She had one more year to try to help Dave Karofsky. She had to make the most of the time she had left.

For both their sakes.


	6. Season Three, Part One

**Summer 2011**

Shannon Beiste adjusted her cap, only the barest shadow of the brim keeping the pounding summer sun out of her eyes. Her players didn't even have that.

"Pick up the pace!" she barked. "And keep hydrated! I don't want any of you gettin' heat stroke on me!"

Already shirts were being plastered to backs and chests, and they'd barely been at it half an hour. It'd be time for a break soon, then another relatively short session; no sense burning the players out, literally and figuratively. Dave and Finn still looked ready to go — the latter because he was itching to make sure he earned the starting QB position instead of Sam Evans, and the former... Well, she knew why, generally. Whether he still wanted to hide, or if it was a mere distraction from the deeper issues plaguing him, she couldn't begrudge him that.

What she could do, though, was make sure that neither of them pushed themselves too far out of being overeager.

"Hudson! Karofsky! Take five!"

"Aw, c'mon, Coach." That was Finn whining; she was mildly surprised it ended up being him. "I'm fine!"

"Hey! Who's the coach here? Besides, you won't be wasting time — not while I'm in charge! Get some fluids and read up on the new playbook. I've got a new strategy this year, and if you wanna keep being my quarterback, you'd better be prepared!"

A flash of horror passed over Finn's face (probably at the idea of losing out to Sam again) and he nodded. "Got it, Coach." He jogged over to the bleachers, where Dave was already sitting, sucking at a bottle of Gatorade from a cooler. As he sat, Finn took a glance at Dave — a very odd one, she could tell, even as brief as it was. It tickled a question in the back of her brain, but her attention was quickly diverted back to the field when she had to tell Chris Strando to stop jawin' and start blockin'.

It was only later that the small incident became clearer. As practice was winding down, a small group of players were talking amongst themselves as they took one last break. Not coincidentally, they all happened to be members of the McKinley glee club. Her eyes still on her clipboard, Beiste casually scooted closer to the group, training her ears in their direction. She held her breath for a second, but fortunately, her subtlety seemed to work.

"... He actually stopped by _my_ house!" Finn hissed. "And Kurt _let_ him in!"

"Isn't he helping Kurt with his PFLAG group?" Mike Chang asked.

"Yeah, but it's not right!"

"What's not right? Coach said that he had to if he wanted to stay on the team..."

"That's the thing!" His voice raised a notch in the middle of the sentence, but quickly dialed down. Beiste yelled at Jim Moss just to "demonstrate" she wasn't listening. Finally, Finn continued. "That's what she said, but Karofsky seems to be going along with it! I mean, he's not complaining or insulting Kurt or anything!"

"Y'know," Sam said, "some people would see that as a _good_ thing."

"But it doesn't add up! This is _Karofsky_ we're talking about here!"

"You sure this isn't about him tossing that Slushie at you last year?"

"How do you know about that? You weren't even here."

"Quinn. Duh."

The discussion fell silent again, probably because Finn was musing on the Sam-Quinn romance. It took him a couple of minutes (during which Beiste ordered one last set of drills; she hoped he'd hurry up already and finish before she ended the workout) to say something. "Okay, fine, it's good that there's one less asshole messing with us, and that Coach seems to have straightened him out. But he's in my _house_ , for God's sake! With my _stepbrother_ , sometimes _alone_!"

"Dude," Puck's voice said, "if Kurt hasn't said anything by now, he's probably got everything under control. Hell, maybe he ripped Karofsky's balls off already."

"Yeah, Kurt says there's nothing to worry about. Said getting detention after that fight he got into with you guys scared him straight."

"So what's the problem?" Mike asked.

"I just... I worry. Kurt's family now, and Karofsky _looks_ like he's changed, but I dunno..."

"Okay..." Sam said, "try this: what do you want to do?"

"Kick Karofsky's ass into Wisconsin so he's never around again."

"And what would Kurt do to you if you did that?"

"Dude!" The word was infused with all kinds of fear. "He'd tear my junk into pieces and feed it to me. He says he really needs Karofsky to make the PFLAG thing work."

"Then I guess there's nothing you can do."

Finn sighed. "Yeah."

"Look at it this way," Mike said, "you trust Kurt, right?"

"Yeah," Finn said immediately.

"So you know that if Karofsky steps out of line, he'll bring the hammer down, right?"

A pause. "Yeah... But what if Karofsky beats him up or—"

"If he's _that_ psycho, there's nothing we can do to stop him. It's not about him, it's about Kurt. Do you think he can stand on his own two feet or not?"

"Okay, okay, I get the point. I mean... I guess if _I'm_ afraid of him, Karofsky probably is too, right?"

"Yeah, but still, keep your ears open," Puck said. "I'd love to have an excuse to have another shot at him."

"Hey, if _you_ want to cross Kurt..."

"You kidding? No fucking way!"

Beiste shook her head to herself. Why oh why did Kurt Hummel not want to stay on the football team? Her mind boggled to imagine what she could do for discipline with a force like that around...

And the day didn't even end there — not by a long shot. After dismissing the team for the day, she was heading back inside to a cool drink when a voice called out to her. "Coach!" A very familiar man was approaching her from the gate to the parking lot.

"Ah, Mr. Karofsky."

"Please, call me Paul." The two shook hands.

"If you're here for Dave, he's taking a shower right now..."

"No. I mean, yes, I'm here to pick up David, but I wanted to talk with you first."

"About Dave? He's doing very well on the team..."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, but I was wondering if he's seemed..." Paul Karofsky hesitated. "... Odd to you lately."

Alarm bells began going off in Shannon Beiste's brain. She consciously told her voice box to remain even when it spoke next. "Odd? What do you mean?"

"I mean..." The man made a sort of snorting sound in frustration. "I don't know, but my wife's noticed it too. He's... different. Shut off. Has been for a couple of years now, but lately it's been even worse."

Beiste was, to put it kindly, not surprised. She knew Dave was capable of extremes emotionally — high highs and low lows — but that was a function of dealing with the secret he was keeping. It had to be even worse at home. Dave insisted he was talking to gay peers online and was going to check out a youth center Kurt had recommended, but she didn't have time to hover over his shoulder to make sure. She hoped he would. "How so?"

"He doesn't talk to us. It's like..." Paul ran his fingers through his hair. "It's like he can barely stand to look at us. He's not so angry anymore, but nowadays it's more like he's... I don't know... Withdrawing."

Beiste shrugged. "Seems fine on the field."

"That's what I don't get! These mood swings... If they were more sudden, I'd think he needed psychiatric help, but..." He threw up his hands helplessly. "I just wanted to know if you could help us. Is there anything, _anything_ , you can tell me?"

"Not really," Beiste lied. "I see him all the time, and he seems fine to me."

"Well, yes, we've made sure he's not starting any fights anymore, but... He was so angry for a while, but he's not anymore... I think we have you to thank for that."

"Maybe." It wasn't just modesty talking; she had a feeling that Dave was still angry, but instead of being angry at others...

"No, we've seen the difference, which is why the way he's treating us is so puzzling..." Paul shook his head. "You're sure he hasn't been acting any differently at school? Oddly?"

She hesitated; was this really something she should be doing? Perhaps it was worth the risk... "He's a little preoccupied, maybe..."

"With what?"

"Don't know. Maybe with the PFLAG group."

Paul's brow furrowed. "What's that?"

"Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. It's a support group bein' formed by Kurt Hummel." She took a breath, literally and mentally. "Dave's been helping him out."

"Why?" Paul asked, befuddled.

Beiste's gut began to drop. "Well... You know that there's been a bullying problem at McKinley. Kurt Hummel was wanting to form this club to try to make things better. I figured that it'd be a good experience for Dave to do something constructive with his time."

"Yes, but... what's this... group got to do with David? I mean, he's not a homophobe; we've raised him right."

"It's... Parents _and Friends_ of Lesbians and Gays. I'm not gay myself, but I'm gonna be the faculty adviser. Nothin' wrong with Dave being part of this... is there?"

Paul reddened. "Ah, yes... I know Debra is... devout. But please understand, she doesn't hate anyone, least of all gays."

"Her church is pretty conservative, isn't it?"

"St. Luke's? I suppose, but I'm not going to judge my wife for her beliefs. I never have."

"So you don't mind the PFLAG group?"

"Personally, no, but I don't see the point of something like that at McKinley. I understand Kurt Hummel is gay, but all this trouble just for him? Seems to me it'd be a better use of David's time to make the school better for everyone."

Beiste's mind warred with a hundred different impulses, some of them violent. But she'd had long practice in keeping her emotions in check; she swallowed and simply said, "Everyone deserves to have a safe place at school, even just... one gay kid, don't ya think?"

"Of course," Paul said with a shrug. "Frankly, it's just that I don't think about these gay issues all that often. I have to be honest, all that leather and nudity they fling around make me uncomfortable. It's... I believe there's a time and place to be sexual, you know?"

Beiste felt her teeth grit. She'd never had this much problem keeping back an impulse in her life. Fortunately, some of the team came trudging out of the school building, their shoulders bent from exhaustion. She turned away from Paul Karofsky before she exploded. "Looks like Dave should be out soon." She turned back once she regained her temper. "I wouldn't worry about him. He's fine." _Without you, anyway_.

Paul's brow furrowed, then relaxed. "If you say so. Just... please do me a favor? Make sure he knows that he can come to us anytime about anything."

A single word rang in Beiste's head over and over again. _Liar! Liar!_ It was uncharitable and unfair, but she couldn't help it.

"Well, I gotta take care of the equipment. Good talkin' to ya, Mr. Karofsky."

"Same here, Coach. Thank you for all the help you've given my son."

 _You don't know the half of it, buddy._

She couldn't bear to watch Dave when he finally emerged and met with his father, having to go home to that... that _woman_ and her church and her condescension. She busied herself with the equipment, and sweated out her anger and frustration under the hot Lima sun.

* * *

 **The Purple Piano Project**

New year, new season, new beginnings.

Shannon Beiste always looked forward to such fresh starts, so full of potential and possibility. The tantalizing prospect of being a _repeat_ champion alone... She had no idea if her boys would get there again, but she'd have a hell of a good time trying.

Then, of course, there was the fact that this was Dave Karofsky's senior year. She wondered what sort of man he'd be when he left McKinley, and whether she'd be the reason... or the cause.

Was this what it felt like to work with land mines? Couldn't have been that much more stressful.

But no sense bellyaching or obsessing. She knew what she had to do, so it was just a matter of _doing_. And she could take a big first step that very afternoon.

For that afternoon was the first meeting of the McKinley PFLAG group. Flyers were all over the walls (and by God, they stayed up unblemished; she made _damn_ sure of that), though not even Kurt had any idea what kind of attendance they'd get. When she asked what Dave was doing to help with that, he'd hesitated and said, "I didn't ask him to help. I didn't... I didn't want to push the issue." It was much kinder than Dave perhaps deserved — but then, she definitely wasn't the forgive and forget type. That was just the way she was. But apparently, Kurt and Dave had been planning this thing all throughout summer (or so she'd heard; she was deliberately staying out of their way to let them get comfortable being in each other's presence), so perhaps there was some sort of friendship going on there. She hoped so; she was tired of being Dave's only lifeline with this... this thing. Having someone else who could help would go a long way in relieving her own stress.

When she entered the designated classroom, fifteen minutes after the last bell of the day, not many surprises awaited her. Kurt and Dave were seated in a circle of chairs; this circle included Rachel Berry, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, Mike Chang, Tina Cohen-Chang... In fact, apart from a couple of kids she didn't recognize, the entire group was made up of members of the glee club — undoubtedly due to Kurt and Rachel (girl was a damn whirlwind). Some of those gathered, like Finn and Noah Puckerman, were fidgeting a mile a minute, eyes darting between fellow attendees and the door, as if they expected Jacob ben Israel to come charging in with a camera crew and exposing their shocking compassion for other human beings to the world. Then again, Dave himself was among those so reacting — although Beiste had a feeling his nervousness had more to do with the others already present than worrying about his "rep." _Dammit, Dave, they ain't gonna jump you the second your back is turned_. She sat in one of the empty chairs, resolving to talk with Dave about it later.

"All right!" Kurt rose, clapping his hands. "Welcome, everyone, to the first meeting of the McKinley High School Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays!" Rachel applauded enthusiastically. "We've got a good turnout today!" He certainly sounded like he meant it, even if this wasn't what he was expecting or hoping for. "None of the parents could make it this time, but hopefully they'll be joining us for future meetings. But I'm glad to see everyone here."

"Only because Rachel made us," Puck muttered under his breath, so low that only Beiste had a chance to hear him.

"I'm Kurt Hummel, co-founder, alongside my fellow co-founder David Karofsky." He nodded towards Dave, who gave the group his own shallow, mildly sullen nod. The odd looks given to him by his football teammates made Beiste wonder if his nervousness had another point entirely. "And our faculty adviser, Coach Beiste."

She half rose from her chair. "Hey. And I'm glad to see everyone here too." She set her gaze on Dave. "Especially you, Karofsky," she said harshly. No point in letting this opportunity to strengthen the cover story slide by. There was something in Dave's passing glance — gratitude, maybe? Better be.

"So why don't we go around and introduce ourselves, maybe say a few words about what you hope to learn and do here."

The introductions were pretty perfunctory (except for Rachel, who threatened to go on for several minutes before Kurt not-so-subtly shushed her), and mostly imparted no new information, except for one of the students she didn't recognize. He, with his neat bow tie and slicked back hair, introduced himself as Blaine Anderson, a transfer student from Dalton Academy. Huh, so this was the boyfriend. Beiste wondered how much he'd talked to Dave, and how his presence now would affect things, but knew she wouldn't dare ask any of them. She just had to hope.

The rest of the meeting went smoothly; not much was on the agenda, since it was the first. The most important, perhaps, was establishing the ground rules, with the most important of those being that nothing said or done inside the room was to leave it without permission. Kurt also talked enthusiastically about possible lobbying activities, presentations, films... Rachel and Blaine were the most eager participants, with Puck and Dave on the opposite end of the spectrum, though each for different reasons. Beiste hung around as the meeting ended, watching Kurt personally thank each of the attendees for coming and remind them to come up with possible topics for future discussion. Dave remained in his chair the entire time, giving only cursory nods, his eyes twitching only when Kurt kissed Blaine goodbye. Beiste made a mental note to bring that up too; caution or not, he could at least be putting in a _little_ more effort...

Soon it was only the three of them in the room. "Well! I think that went well!" And Beiste could see from Kurt's face that he genuinely thought so. Were his expectations that low? She wouldn't have blamed him if they had. "Thank you, Coach, Dave."

"No problem," she drawled.

"Yeah, sure," Dave muttered. Beiste bristled, but Kurt shot her a _look_. Huh. Kid had a lot more patience than she did, that was for sure. But PFLAG was his baby; she'd defer to him for now.

Except... She'd been waiting for exactly this moment, exactly this circumstance... Might as well bring it up now. "Hey, I got a suggestion."

"Yes, Coach?"

"I wanna bring in the rest of the football team into this."

Dave shot bolt upright in his chair. Kurt raised a questioning eyebrow. "Do... you think that's a good idea?"

"You denyin' they're the ones who most need to change?" Silence answered; she nodded in self-satisfaction. "I think something like this has gotta start at the top. Once the popular kids get into it, I think the rest of the school will fall into line easier."

Kurt took a quick glance back at Dave before turning back to face her. "Yes, that's true, but—"

"I'm not sayin' you have to let the whole kit and caboodle in at once. I'd like to... _suggest_ it to the rest of the team first. Try arguin' for their joining."

"How?" Kurt asked skeptically.

"Let me worry about that. I think I can actually get a few of 'em to join. Then, later on, if I start requirin' them to come in once in a while as part of team buildin'... Havin' a buncha the biggest and strongest guys as part of your group can't hurt, can it?"

"I don't know... This is supposed to be a safe place..." Kurt's head started to turn back towards Dave before he caught himself, and _oh_.

"Well..." She coughed, kicking herself mentally for not having considered that aspect. "I'll work on 'em gradually. By the time I succeed... It'll probably be a few months. Enough time for everyone already in the group to get used to it."

Kurt nodded, somewhat reluctantly. "All right... We _could_ use a few more members, and you're right, strength in numbers... and in strength." Hesitantly, he turned. "Dave?"

"Hrm?" he grunted.

Kurt sat back in his chair, leaning towards Dave; Beiste found herself wondering just what these two had been talking about during all those PFLAG planning sessions. If it was anything like what she'd overheard in the library... "You don't have to say yes, you know."

Dave shrugged, a gesture that was obviously meant to be casual, but totally failed. "I dunno... It might make me look less obvious if the guys who aren't in glee have to be here too."

"A-all right... If that's what you want..."

Dave rose to his feet, so abruptly that Kurt actually jumped back. "I don't know what I want." He charged out of the room without another word.

Kurt and Beiste's eyes met; they both sighed, almost simultaneously. _Looks like another sleepless night_ , she thought bitterly.

* * *

 **I Am Unicorn**

"No."

Beiste couldn't help but smirk. "I ain't said what I was gonna suggest yet."

Dave crossed his arms defiantly. "I heard you were one of the directors on the school musical. So I know what you're gonna say, and I say no."

"We need more actors," she said. "And with what you did for the halftime show last year—"

"I was part of a group then. Doing all that stuff alone is another thing entirely. N-O, no." He huffed. "I thought you said that I didn't have to like musicals and shit."

"And if you'd been awful at the halftime show, and hated it, I wouldn't be askin'."

"Yeah, but... the glee club is gonna be in it, right?"

"So? They're in PFLAG, aren't they?"

"That's the point! PFLAG, football... It's like I can't escape them!"

"And the problem is...?"

"They hate me!" Dave cried.

Beiste frowned. "They do?"

"Of course they do! All the shit I pulled...!"

"But you haven't done any of that since sophomore year. I've made sure of that."

"Yeah, but they still think I'm an asshole," Dave mumbled.

"And you agree with them?" Beiste asked mildly.

"I just... I just don't feel comfortable around them. And Santana still _knows_ , and she teases me about it all the time. She makes these little jokes in public that hint around, and..."

Beiste sighed. "You're gonna have to decide what to do about that girl. I'm still ready to talk to her. I mean, she can't claim to be a 'friend of gays' if she's holdin' this over your head like that..."

"No, it's all right," Dave said, sounding extremely insincere about it. "I mean... I gotta make up my mind about this whole... _gay_ thing sooner or later... Right?"

"Whole thing...?" Beiste had to catch her breath. "You mean...?"

"I can't stand it," Dave rasped in a near whisper. "I'm so fucking tired of being scared, and Mom keeps talking about how wrong gay marriage is and I have to actually fucking _bite my tongue_ to keep from yelling at her, and..." He drew in a stuttering breath. "Kurt and Blaine, they're walking around holding hands and I'm so fucking jealous..."

Beiste could feel her heart pounding in her ears, though it didn't escape her that there was more than one thing Dave could be jealous over. "And what do they think about this?"

"They don't know. They keep saying I have to decide for myself, and... You know I've been saying it? Out loud? To my bathroom mirror?" A note of pride crept into his voice. "It's... actually easier than I thought it'd be. I say it, and I feel... I dunno, lighter?" She heard him take a deep breath. "I'm gay." The words were calm, steady, audible. Beiste couldn't help but be impressed. "And at this rate, I don't think I can hide it forever. I feel like if I keep quiet... I'm gonna go nuts."

"Well..." She cleared her throat. "What brought all this on?"

"Summer. I was talking to Kurt and Blaine a lot, looking at all those websites you and they gave me, and..." He cocked his head. "I think... I think I'm feeling a little better about this whole thing. I mean, I dunno if I'm _okay_ with it, not all the way, but... I got them in my corner... I got you and the rest of the PFLAG group, and... I really actually feel like... maybe I _could_..."

Beiste wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Well," she said gently, "I think Kurt and Blaine are right: this has to be up to you. But... if you _do_ decide to... do this, I'm behind ya, kid. So're they, and the rest of the PFLAG group. Just remember that, okay?"

Dave nodded rapidly. "Can't forget."

He talked no more about his thought process, his intentions, but Beiste was a little relieved that he didn't. He needed time to sort through this for himself, and she needed time to work on the musical; juggling her two jobs wasn't an easy task.

Neither, it seemed, was anything else.

Dave burst into her office later that week. "'Too much of a lady'?!" he demanded.

"What?"

"You told Kurt he was 'too much of a lady' to be Tony?"

Beiste actually had to think for a moment to remember. Then she looked at Dave's face, at the hurt and _betrayal_ there... Her mouth felt dry. "I... I didn't mean it like _that_..."

"How else _could_ you mean it? You know how hurt he was? What about everything you told me about your high school classmates thinking you were a man? How is that any different from what you said?"

She tried — she tried really hard — to think of a difference. She couldn't. Shame piled into her innards.

"I thought... I thought you were on my— our side, Coach..." Dave said plaintively.

She shot to her feet. "I am!"

"So what do you _really_ think of me?" he asked in a soft voice. "All that stuff you said about how you didn't think I was a different person just 'cause you know I'm gay... Was that all just bullshit?"

"No!" She circled her desk and grabbed his shoulder. "I meant it, every word! I was wrong, Dave! I'm still... I'm still tryin' to get past all my old prejudices that I grew up with. You're absolutely right, I was bein' a hypocrite. I wasn't any different from those bitches when I was young, and that's _my_ problem, not yours, and it definitely shouldn't be Kurt's." She straightened her back, buoyed by the realization of what she had to do. "I'm gonna go find him right now and apologize. Then I'm gonna go back to Artie and Emma and tell 'em that I've changed my mind, and that we're gonna cast Kurt in a role he's worthy of. Maybe it'll be Tony, maybe not. But he's not gonna suffer just 'cause I couldn't get my head screwed on straight." Her grip on Dave's shoulder tightened. "And I wanna apologize to you too. I'm sorry. I'm still learnin', but that's no excuse. Just remember, I ain't ever lied to you about what I think, Dave, not once, and I'm sorry I made you think that way. Okay?"

Dave sniffled. "O-okay."

It was only then that it struck Beiste just how much Dave had invested in her. She was a lifeline to a drowning man, and she'd as much as taunted him that she could yank it away whenever she chose — without even realizing it. Once more, she felt that weight of responsibility. "I promise, I'm gonna do right by you, Kurt, and everyone else. I'll get over these stupid hang-ups and stereotypes and I'll do right. If you ever see me stray, even a second, call me out, cuss me out, whatever. Do what you gotta do."

Dave nodded. "Okay," he repeated. She felt his shoulder heave under her hand. "You're really gonna do all that?"

"I am. In fact..." Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "I've got an idea..."

"Uh oh."

* * *

 **Asian F**

Sure, the idea wasn't very original. But it worked — that was the important part.

Forcing the entire football team to audition for the musical ("Y'all have already proven ya can move, and that's all we need!") gave Dave cover; furthermore, she had everyone sing a couple of bars, "just in case we need anyone else."

"Isn't that... going a little overboard?" Artie asked.

Beiste shrugged. "We got roles. They're here. I don't see the big deal."

"It's just... time consuming."

"Hey, you wanna do this fast or right? Who knows — we might just find some kinda gem in all that manure."

Artie stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Eh, why not. It might be funny."

And indeed it was; some of the boys couldn't sustain a note if their lives depended on it. Lucky for them she hadn't recruited them for their vocal talents.

Then there was Dave.

At first, he hemmed and hawed and coughed.

"We're waitin'!" Beiste snapped. There were snickers from the wings.

"O-okay." He took a breath so deep she could almost see his lungs inflate. Then:

 _There's a place for us..._

The words were soft and timid.

"Louder!" she barked. The volume immediately ratcheted up in reaction, almost defiantly.

 _A time and place for us..._

Artie immediately snapped to attention. Beiste felt her jaw drop. She hadn't been able to pick out Dave's voice during the halftime show, and maybe her standards had been lowered by all those yahoos earlier, but this...

 _Hold my hand and we're halfway there..._

This actually sounded... good.

 _Hold my hand and I'll take you there..._  
 _Somehow..._  
 _Someday..._  
 _Somewhere..._

Dave's voice died away. His hands wringing, he stared out at the three directors. They stared back.

"Uh... Okay." Silence. Just dead silence. "Was... Is that it?"

"Huh?" Artie jolted in his chair, as if just woken up. "Oh! Oh... yeah. Thanks, Karofsky. Next!"

As Dave hurried towards the wings, passing by a befuddled looking Todd Latham, the trio was still dazed.

"That..." Beiste whispered to Artie, "That was... okay, right?"

Artie could only nod rapidly, silently.

A few days later, Beiste happened to pass by while a small group of glee club members were looking over the cast list, which read, in part:

 **Tony: Blaine Anderson**  
 **Maria: Rachel Berry**  
 **Riff: Michael Chang**  
 **Anita: Santana Lopez**  
 **Action: Kurt Hummel**  
 **Bernardo: Dave Karofsky**

Santana snorted. "White boys playing Puerto Ricans. Figures. This school's got more white bread than Subway."

"Congratulations, Kurt," Blaine said, hugging his boyfriend around the shoulders. "See, you got a pretty good part after all."

"Not Tony, though," came the somewhat brittle reply.

"I'm sorry—"

"No, it's fine."

"But—"

"We'll talk about it later," Kurt said... well, curtly.

"At least you won't be killing Karofsky," Santana said archly, grinning cattily at Blaine. "That's _your_ job. Bet you're looking forward to that, huh?"

Beiste hurried away before she heard the reply. Santana was becoming a thorn in her psyche, an extra little wild card complication that was very much not needed.

Besides, she wanted to see the look on Dave's face once he saw that cast list.

* * *

 **Pot O' Gold**

Jacob ben Israel wasn't human. He was some kind of weasel in human shape.

That was the conclusion Shannon Beiste had come to when his website first came to her attention. High school kids had enough problems with peer pressure and social humiliation to not have to see it _encouraged_ by some tabloid reporter wannabe. It frankly disgusted her, even as she shuddered to think what _her_ high school life might've been like if the Internet had existed then...

But there wasn't a lot she could do about it (she'd heard about how previous teachers had tried to meddle in his affairs, only to be beaten back in the name of "free speech"), so she tried to ignore it the best she could.

That was why she was taken off guard when Kurt charged into her office one morning, pale. "Look!" he cried, jamming his cell phone into her face.

She actually had to back up a little to be able to see anything but blurs of color, but then, the headline became clear:

TITANS RIGHT GUARD HOMELESS ON THE STREETS

It took a second for the words to click in her brain. She gaped, looking up at Kurt in horror.

The accompanying photo was taken outside of a car window. Sleeping in the back seat, using his jacket as a blanket, was Dave. She couldn't make herself read the article. Kurt sat in the visitor's chair.

"Do..." She swallowed. "Do you think it's because...?"

Kurt nodded grimly. "It'd make sense, wouldn't it?"

"Goddammit... Why didn't he call me or...?"

"You know him. He has his pride. He probably didn't even consider it."

Beiste's hands closed into fists. She wasn't sure who she was angry at — Dave? His mother? Herself? It was a frustrating feeling. "You find him," she growled. "You find him and you bring him here. Get whatever help you need, and I'll cover for you in your classes. Just find him."

"Yes, Coach." Kurt rose and hurried out of the office, leaving Beiste to nurse the damnedest headache she'd ever had in her life.

The entire day passed with no sign of Dave — and she looked. Oh, boy, did she look. But none of his teachers or classmates had seen him. From the snatches of conversation she overheard as she stalked the halls, relatively few people had actually read the JBI article, and fewer still were spreading it; it apparently wasn't sensational enough, nor about an "interesting" enough person, to really grab hold of the gossip psyche. But enough knew to make it a topic of mild conversation; none came close to the truth, though. Beiste supposed it was just a sign of how good Dave was at hiding and lying.

PFLAG met that afternoon, and the gathering started without Kurt, Dave, or Blaine. It was up to Beiste to get things rolling, and she did, rather haltingly and reluctantly. "Well, our founders ain't here yet, as you can see..." The very implication of Dave's absence brought enough glances around the room for her to sense the elephant sitting right in the middle of it. "So we'll get started. Y'all got ideas for posters, like we talked about last week...?"

Rachel did — many of them, and she listed them all, in descending order of complexity and timeliness. It was a welcome respite; Beiste's eyes remained glued on the closed classroom door. Rachel had just gotten to idea number five (concerning gay adoption) when it creaked open. Every head in the room turned to see Dave shuffle in, flanked by Kurt and Blaine. He was bleary eyed, head bowed, as the two other boys gently led him towards the empty chairs, as if he were their elderly grandfather. Slowly, painfully, he sat, with his rather odd honor guard sitting on either side of him.

Finn was the first to break the silence. "Dude... what happened?"

Dave didn't speak — Kurt did, so quickly and with such level confidence that it struck Beiste as carefully rehearsed. "Dave is having some family issues." Quinn stirred in her seat. "He's okay, but obviously, he needs a little space, so I'd appreciate it if we could just continue with the meeting for now."

Kurt later explained his logic for bringing Dave to the meeting in the first place. "He didn't believe he had any friends left. I wanted to show him otherwise." If he'd told her that before, she would've been... dubious at best. But seeing some of the looks being shot from face to face amongst the glee club members, she almost began to believe that he was right. Dave hadn't been a bully for many months now, and he was proving himself in _West Side Story_ rehearsals, true, but Kurt had to have been doing _something_ behind the scenes with his friends. Whatever it was, it seemed to be having its desired effect.

Maybe Dave Karofsky and the glee club weren't exactly friends. But as with Kurt, they wouldn't be enemies either, and that could be — just may have been — enough.

"Okay, looks like we've gone over everything," Beiste said half an hour later. "That's it for today." Nobody so much as moved.

Dave looked up with reddened eyes at this tableau. "You can save the pity," he growled in a rather transparent and sad attempt to sound hostile. "I'm fine."

Once more, Finn was the first to act, standing. "Karof— Dave..."

"Shut the fuck up, Hudson. I don't need an interrogation or speeches. I just want to be left alone."

Finn's eyes flickered between Rachel and Kurt (the latter of whom nodded encouragingly) before settling back on Dave. "Look, man... I know we haven't gotten along in a long time, but... Y'know, lately you've been..."

"Not an asshole," Puck chimed in.

Finn shot him a glare before continuing. "Actually... He's kinda right. You stopped Slushying us, you formed the PFLAG with Kurt... You're even in the musical, for fuck's sake!" He rubbed the back of his head. "I don't know what's going on with you and your folks, but you shouldn't be sleeping in your car. Nobody deserves that."

"Better than sleeping here," Dave muttered.

"And I just wanted to tell you that... Well, if you needed any help..."

Dave stood like someone had just taken a swing at him. "You're kidding, right? You're fucking kidding me. You have absolutely _no_ fucking reason to help _me_ , okay?" He turned; Beiste stood herself, afraid that he was going to bolt for the door, but instead, he just went to the window, standing and staring outside at the clear afternoon sky. "So just save it. I don't need your fake concern. I'll handle this myself."

Finn looked helplessly down at his stepbrother. Kurt nodded towards Dave with clenched teeth. Encouraged, her quarterback spoke again. "Kurt thinks you've changed," he said. Beiste could see the tension spring to life in Dave's back. "And honestly, we didn't believe him, but... I'm starting to think you have. We used to get along when we were kids, remember? We were almost kinda... friends."

Dave snorted wetly, but he didn't turn around. "That was a long time ago, Hudson."

"Yeah, I know, but we trust Kurt now. If he says you're okay... Then you're okay. Especially since you've been... y'know..."

"Not an asshole," Puck repeated.

"What they're trying to say," Mercedes spoke up, "is that if you need somewhere to go... You've got better choices than your car. We—"

"Just shut the _fuck_ up." Dave still hadn't turned around; his voice, his entire form, was trembling. "I don't _need_ your help. I..." His head began to droop, the shaking growing more pronounced. "I don't deserve..." The words were barely audible.

Finn gingerly stepped forward, as if tiptoeing through a minefield, until he was right next to Dave. "Hey, Dave..." He began to reach out, but Dave's shoulders flinched away. "Don't be afraid—" _  
_

 _Take a sad song, and make it better..._

This time, Dave turned — as did everyone else — towards Kurt. The words were sung low, under the breath (and, as Beiste was later reminded, not even the right ones); Kurt's eyes widened with horror as the stares sunk in.

"Oh. Oh, God. I'm so sorry, I don't know why I—"

 _Remember to let her into your heart..._

Blaine's voice was louder, stronger, almost cheeky. He grinned, holding onto Kurt's shoulder.

 _Then you can start to make it better..._

Santana rose, as did her voice.

 _Hey, Dave, don't make it bad...  
You were made to go out and get her..._

Quinn joined in, her own eyes wide, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was doing.

 _The minute you let her under your skin..._  
 _Then you begin to make it better..._

Sam's voice rang out, half laughing.

 _And anytime you feel the pain, hey Dave, refrain..._  
 _Don't carry the world upon your shoulders..._

Dave, and the few non-glee club members of PFLAG, stared in bewilderment as Rachel coolly broke into song with her fellows.

 _For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool..._  
 _By making his world a little colder..._

Kurt seemed to be rooted in his chair, his own disbelieving and somewhat horrified stare plastered on his face, as the rest of his glee club compatriots began dancing around, lost in the song.

 _Hey Dave, don't let me down..._  
 _You have found her, now go and get her..._

Even Finn got caught up. Beiste took the opportunity to sidle up to Dave's side.

"You should've come to me."

"I thought about it," Dave said hoarsely. "I was going to, but... I was so ashamed..."

 _Remember to let her into your heart..._  
 _Then you can start to make it better..._

"Dammit, Karofsky, I told you: day or night. Any reason. You shouldn't have to go this alone," she said in a low voice while she watched the glee club whirl and dance and sing. "I would've helped you. I still will."

 _So let it out and let it in, hey Dave, begin..._  
 _You're waiting for someone to perform with..._

"I've got a spare room," Beiste said, "and you're gonna sleep in it. Tonight, and as long as you need. No more of this car nonsense. You're coming..." She swallowed. "You're coming home with me, and that's final. And if I hear one word of backtalk from you, you'll be running laps until graduation. You got that?"

 _Remember to let her under your skin..._  
 _Then you'll begin to make it_  
 _Better... better... better... better... better... better..._

Dave turned towards her, tears welling in his eyes. "Coach, I—"

 _Na na na na na na na..._  
 _Na na na na..._  
 _Hey, Dave!_

Kurt was pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, fighting a smile.

"Just say yes, Dave. That's all you need to say, and all I need to hear."

"I..." He sucked in a breath. "Okay."

 _Na na na na na na na..._  
 _Na na na na..._  
 _Hey, Dave!_

Dave returned his attention to the singing and dancing. "Isn't this song, like, twenty minutes long?"

"Somethin' like that. Ya wanna get out of here?"

 _Na na na na na na na..._  
 _Na na na na..._  
 _Hey, Dave!_

He looked out at the glee club, a group of people who'd once been his enemies, who'd actually expressed a willingness to help him in his time of need on the word of a friend. A grin — small and weak, but still a grin — formed on Dave's face. "Nah, let 'em finish."

 _Na na na na na na na..._  
 _Na na na na..._  
 _Hey, Dave..._


	7. Season Three, Part Two

**The First Time**

Over the course of the next several days — almost a week — Beiste slowly extracted what had happened out of Dave. It was a prickly excursion; the last thing she wanted to do was to make him dwell on his family's utter failure to _be_ a family. But at the same time, letting him not talk about it at all wasn't exactly the healthiest option either. So she went slowly, gently, letting him guide his own pace to at least some extent. It took a long time — longer than Beiste would've liked, being the impatient gal she was — but she eventually got the big picture.

Simply put, he'd reached his breaking point. Father Mitchell was hoping to create a church camp in which "homosexuals could find their way through God," and Debra Karofsky was predictably enthusiastic about the project. She kept talking about it and talking about it and talking about it — over dinner, on drives, in front of the TV. The most reaction his father had was grinning at Dave and shaking his head in a wry "what'cha gonna do?" fashion.

But every time she brought it up, Dave could feel himself dying a little more inside.

Finally, he'd had enough. Dave's mother was asking his father to take some flyers for a fundraiser for the straight camp to his office and hand them out. "You should see the site, it's just gorgeous! It's so calm there, so peaceful. And Father Mitchell's already hired some excellent counselors..."

"Mm hmm," his father said, paying more attention to his meatloaf than the words. Was that better or worse than engaging? Dave didn't know.

"David," his mother said, turning to him, "I know you don't go to St. Luke's anymore, but I really would appreciate it if you'd take some flyers to McKinley. I really do think it'd be of more help to gay young people than that... that _group_ you're a part of—"

It was such an innocuous statement, overall; Dave had no idea why that was the breaking point. Maybe it was the mere suggestion that St. Luke and Father Mitchell could invade one of the only safe places he had? He was never sure. The fact remained that he... snapped. The way Dave described it to Coach Beiste, it felt a _lot_ like what happened when he kissed Kurt: anger and despair and fear just... bubbling over. Maybe more like exploding.

He slammed down his fork onto the floor; the clanging finally got his father's attention. He rose from his chair. "No, Mom, I won't spread Father Mitchell's _fucking_ bullshit!"

"David—!" his father exclaimed.

"David, language!"

"How can you do this? How can you go around telling people that gays are diseased—"

"You know very well he does nothing of the kind! It's a message of love and compassion..."

"Oh, yeah, great love and compassion, screwing with their heads when there's nothing fucking wrong with them!"

"Homosexuality is harmful and unnatural," his mother said, "but that doesn't mean that they're diseased! They just don't know better! It's just like how we don't let the mentally ill decide for themselves—"

"For fuck's sake, Mom, _I'm not mentally ill_!"

Paul and Debra Karofsky were intelligent people. The silence that descended upon that dining room in that moment was proof; they instantly comprehended the implication. Dave did as well; he felt as though his stomach had been sliced open, and his intestines were dribbling out. But, as he told Beiste, there was a part of him — a small distant part, but a part nonetheless — that was relieved, rejoicing. _Finally... Finally it's over..._

"David..." his mother said with a dry mouth, "are you saying...?"

"Yeah." Dave swallowed. "I'm gay."

"You...?" his father began.

"Oh, God, David... No..."

"Yes." He closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. "And yes, I'm sure. I'm really _really_ sure. I'm gay."

"Oh, David..."

"And I really... I really _need_ you to accept that. Please, Mom... Please tell me you don't think I'm sick or wrong..."

His mother rose, her eyes brimming with tears and swimming with pity. She gently rubbed his forearm; he had to resist the urge to pull away, because he could practically already _hear_ what she was about to say. "David... I'm... I'm glad you felt like you could tell us the truth... Now we can help you get better..."

"No! I don't _need_ to 'get better'! There's nothing to 'get better' from!"

"I'll call Father Mitchell right now," she said, pulling out her cell phone. "Haven Lake may not be open, but he has connections, resources—"

"Dad—!"

"David, calm down. We can discuss this..."

Dave boggled. "Discuss? There's nothing to fucking discuss!"

"David, keep your voice down—"

"My voice?" he laughed bitterly. "That's actually what you're worried about? My voice? What about Mom sending me to a fucking _straight camp_ when there's nothing wrong with me!"

His mother turned off her phone. "Father Mitchell is on his way over. David..." She reached for him; this time, he did recoil. Just the thought of her touching him was disgusting. "David, please! I love you..."

"But?" The bitterness was increased a thousandfold.

"There is no 'but'! You're my son, and I love you! That's why I'm going to make sure you get the help you need!"

He'd expected this, but somehow, he was still disappointed. Ignoring his mother's entreaties and his father's questions, he charged upstairs to his room. The duffel bag was under his bed, already packed. When his parents saw it, they both went bonkers.

"David Paul Karofsky, you are not leaving this house!"

"David, please! Calm down and we'll talk about this like rational human beings!"

"We can talk," Dave said coldly, "when I know you aren't going to try to 'fix' me."

"David!" his mother said pleadingly.

He strode right past them and left the house, closing his ears and mind to whatever other words they tried to sputter out. All in all, it only took him less than fifteen minutes to become homeless — much less than he would've guessed, perhaps because of the "blitz attack" nature of the revelation. Maybe that was one reason why he didn't try to call Coach Beiste or Kurt (not that either of them accepted such a lame excuse). But the other way around certainly wasn't a problem; Dave had turned off his phone after his parents' fifth attempt to reach him. It was also why he didn't go to school the next day; he didn't want to risk them finding him there. It was a minor miracle that he hadn't been found or picked up by the police. How Jacob ben Israel had discovered him, he wasn't sure, but...

"Just one Slushie. Please," he begged Beiste. "Just one."

"Nope."

"Aw, dammit!"

About four days into Dave's stay with Beiste, Kurt approached her in the halls of McKinley. "Coach... Do you think it's okay if Blaine and I take Dave out tonight?"

"Uh... If he wants to... But why?"

Kurt seemed to find his boots (black, leather, shiny) endlessly fascinating as they shuffled across the tile. "We— I feel a little responsible for what happened..."

Beiste stopped abruptly. "Now hold up." She looked around; nobody milling around them was paying them the least bit of attention, but she still lowered her voice. "What happened wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault, except Dave's parents."

"I know that intellectually, but... You see, Blaine and I were talking with him over the summer..."

"So I heard. It wasn't just about the PFLAG group, was it?"

"No. I have to admit that I laid on the 'be true to yourself' lesson a little thick..."

"That still doesn't make you responsible."

"And I still know that, but honestly, Coach, just like I told Blaine, I need to feel a little better about this, even if there isn't anything to make up for."

"So what do you want to do?"

Kurt looked around for a bit; when he spoke again, it was with a near whisper. "Take him out, meet other gay guys. It's not like he's run into a lot of them in his life; that's probably one big reason he was in denial for so long. I'm hoping that once he sees that he's got a community around him — a real community, not just one online..."

Beiste stroked her chin. "Huh. So where would this be? Some kinda community center or somethin'?"

"Yes! Something like that!" Kurt chuckled nervously; Beiste's instincts prickled, but she tamped them down. The kid had his heart in the right place, so whatever was actually going on, the chances that he'd hurt Dave somehow were pretty small, so let him have his little deception. "So would that be okay?"

Beiste nodded slowly. "I think the kid needs to get out of his own head for a while myself. You just show him a good time, okay? Let him relax a little without having to think about what's happenin' in his life."

Kurt nodded rapidly, smiling in what seemed to be relief. "Of course! Thank you, Coach! Blaine and I will pick him up around... seven?"

"Seven would be fine."

The knocks on the door in fact came precisely at seven. Beiste couldn't help but be impressed; she admired punctuality. It was just a form of keeping promises, after all, and she believed very much in keeping promises.

"So how do I look?" Dave emerged from the guest bedroom (which up until very recently had been used for storage) wearing a denim jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap.

She shrugged. "Okay, I guess. What did Kurt say about how you should dress?"

"He didn't, really. Just said to 'look nice'." Beiste had a feeling that Kurt didn't express apathy towards fashion all that often; for him to have done it now, for Dave... She hoped he wasn't downplaying how guilty he felt; she didn't want to have to play counselor to _two_ teenagers.

She opened the door to Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson, waiting expectantly on the other side. Well, Kurt was waiting expectantly; Blaine just seemed to be... on edge, checking his watch and tapping his foot in a rapid staccato. It was pretty obvious throughout this whole thing that he had (understandably) mixed feelings about Dave Karofsky, but Beiste refused to investigate any further, as long as Dave was comfortable. She had enough — no, more than enough — on her plate as it was. If she got any more, she was afraid the whole meal would slide off and splatter all over the floor, forcing her to break out the carpet cleaner while nudging the dog away with her foot so it wouldn't develop a taste for people food, and...

Okay, she had to admit that one had gotten away from her.

"Hey." Dave appeared over her shoulder, giving a tentative finger-wave to the other two boys.

"Hey, Dave! You look..." He paused, his eyes taking in Dave's outfit. "... Well, it should be fine. I think."

Beiste was once more tempted to question just what these mysterious evening plans were, but honestly, she was too tired. "You boys have a good time. Call me if you're gonna be out past eleven."

"We will," Blaine said. "Thank you, Coach."

"Come on, Dave," Kurt said cheerfully. "We have quite an evening planned."

Dave grimaced. "Can't wait," he said, a tremor of nervousness running through his voice. Beiste stepped aside; he brushed past her and joined his comrades-in-gay (as Kurt once put it). She watched them climb into a car and drive away before she allowed herself to shut the door once more.

Looking back on it later, she was a little surprised to realize that she'd been, on some level, _prepared_ for not having the relaxing evening she'd been hoping for. Was she becoming fatalistic? Were her instincts telling her that the manure had to hit the fan sooner or later, and that this was a good a time as any for it to happen? Or maybe she was just "lucky."

Whatever the cause, her hackles were up as soon as the knock on the door sounded, even as she was relieved that _something_ was happening, and she wasn't on edge for no good reason. Even as she got up to answer, she figured that there was a fifty-fifty shot as to who'd be on the other side, if not both.

It turned out to be Paul Karofsky, alone, to her relief. "Where's my son?" he demanded.

"Not here," she said, speaking the absolute and entire literal truth.

"Don't lie to me!" he snapped. "I know he's staying here."

"And how would you know that?"

"From asking around at McKinley. I thought it'd be... easier to talk to him here than seeking him out at school in front of all his friends."

"Very thoughtful of you," Beiste drawled sarcastically. "But he still ain't here."

"I could bring the police into this," Paul Karofsky growled — very unlike the quiet, low key man she'd taken him as. "David's a minor, and we're still his parents."

"That's true. And the fact that I haven't seen a cop car around here after all this time tells me somethin'. Your wife wouldn't be shy about callin' the police, so I'm guessing that she hasn't because of you." Paul's face immediately froze; she smirked triumphantly. She'd been right. "You're not sure, are you? You're not sure that Dave can be 'cured.' You're stallin' her until you can figure out what to do."

Paul Karofsky winced, his palms rubbing against the front of his pants. "I love my son," he said lamely. "And so does Debra."

"I'm sure she does," Beiste replied calmly, "in her way."

"No, no 'in her way.' She loves David, period. She doesn't think he's some kind of... of _pervert_..."

"But she still wants to fix him." Silence ensued. "Yeah, I thought so. Look, Mr. Karofsky, I'm Dave's teacher and coach. I gotta look out for his best interests, and he does _not_ want to be _fixed_. So you do what you gotta do, and I'll do what I gotta do. You go ahead and call the police if that's what you think is right. They may make Dave go back home, but I promise ya, if you do that, you'll lose him for good. I think you know that. That what you want?"

"Of course not, but—!"

"Then it seems to me that you've got some thinkin' to do. And I suggest you not come by again until you make up your mind. I think Dave's got enough to worry about, don't ya think? He's finally acceptin' this huge thing about himself, and now your wife wants to take that all away from him. Do you really think you can come up with a solution that'll make 'em _both_ happy? Because if you can, I'd love to hear it." More silence ensued. "Well, then. Good night, Mr. Karofsky." She nodded to him, then gently shut the door in the man's face; he didn't so much as utter a sound. She returned to her couch and sat heavily in it. She closed her eyes, trying to will back the tempest in her mind, and for a while, she actually almost succeeded.

She didn't even realize she'd fallen asleep until the click of the lock awoke her. Dave gently stepped inside; she could barely hear the growl of a retreating motor behind him. "Dave...? What time is it...?" she mumbled, her bleary eyes barely able to make out the clock on her cable box.

"Almost midnight," he said sheepishly. "Sorry, we kinda lost track of time."

"S'okay. So you have a good time? What'd you guys end up doing?"

"Uh, well..." Dave huffed, turning away slightly, before continuing. "I... talked. To other gay guys."

"Yeah? Some kinda support group?"

"You could call it that."

"Uh huh. So you learn something?"

A smile came over Dave — tentative, like the first rays of morning light, but there nonetheless. "Yeah. Yeah, I learned a lot, actually. It was... It was actually pretty awesome. Talking in person, I mean. It was..." He shook his head. "I didn't know there were so many different kinds of gay guys out there. I used to think it was only guys like Kurt and Blaine."

Beiste nodded. "So did I, at first. But one thing I've learned, it's that there really ain't a lot of groups out there where every single person in it's the same, and gay people aren't an exception. Glad you've learned that too."

"Yeah, it really did help. Just getting out there, being social and all that... It was a huge relief."

The words stirred something in Beiste; she thought of Cooter Menkins, and wondered why this teenager could get over his insecurities and anxieties, go out and have enough confidence to shatter his social barriers, and she couldn't. There _was_ no reason, that was why. If he could do it, she could do it too. Her resolve hardened.

"So you gonna go out with Kurt and Blaine again?"

Dave gained a thoughtful, somewhat wistful look. "Yeah... If they'll let me. It wasn't all good, but mostly. I... I would like to do it again."

He was opening himself up, to the truth, to the possibilities. Beiste was proud of him, even if no one else was.

That pride only increased on opening night.

 _The Sharks are gonna have their way..._  
 _Tonight!_

She'd deliberately offered Dave a role with very few solo singing lines; no sense scaring the kid away with a bigger part. But now, watching the "Tonight Quintet," Cooter's presence so very _warm_ next to her, she wondered if she should've pushed the envelope a little harder.

 _We're gonna hand them a surprise..._  
 _Tonight!_

The kid was a natural on stage — at least as far as her non-performer's eye could tell. He certainly seemed more comfortable there than on the football field, she had to admit.

 _We said, "Okay, no rumpus..._  
 _No tricks..."_

Once upon a time, she might've wondered if that was because he was gay. But now she knew better; she had no excuse. Hell, she'd made sure to disabuse Dave of any notion that it was true.

 _Well, they began it!_

The five sets of voices intertwined and interlocked as the song reached its climax. Beiste couldn't help thinking of the weeks of rehearsals, of uncomfortable and untrusting looks being exchanged on multiple angles, looks that slowly disappeared under the unifying stresses of rehearsal and Beiste's own interference.

"You're a _cast_ , people! Now, I may not know much about theatre, but I know a _hell_ of a lot about teamwork! If this show's gonna work, y'all are gonna have to not only work together, but _trust_ each other! I know that's hard for some of you, but stuff it! You're all in this boat now, and you've got a buncha furrows to hoe! So whatever you may have against each other, work it out, 'cause I'm not gonna let this thing suffer because of some old grudges!" She had an itch to blow her whistle at this point, but she managed to remember she didn't have it. "Now get back to work!"

 _Tonight...!_

The audience applause washed over the stage like a warm ocean wave. Beiste joined it, wondering if this was what it was like to have kids of her own — to share in their pride and accomplishments. Maybe that was one big reason she became an educator to begin with.

When the show was over, she clapped Dave on the back. "First musical," she said jollily. "So how was it?"

He was silent for a moment before answering. "I had no idea..." he rasped. "I had no fucking idea..."

Dave's face was aglow, with joy and wonder and awe. And she shared in that too.

* * *

 **I Kissed a Girl**

The week started off with a bang, with Finn inadvertently outing Santana, in defiance of everything he should've learned in PFLAG meetings. ("It was an accident! I didn't mean for anyone to—!") Seeing the school's reaction, seeing Santana's face splashed all over television, sent Dave into private paroxysms of fear and guilt that Kurt and Beiste did their best to assuage.

"You need to do what's best for you," Kurt said once in Beiste's office to a trembling, tearing Dave. "If you're not comfortable letting the world know, that's up to you. You know, though, and you're accepting it, more and more every day. That's what truly matters."

"O-okay..." Dave's voice was strained and skeptical, but strong enough that Beiste's own fears were lessened. "But damn, Finn... I know he's your stepbrother, Kurt, but..."

Kurt sighed. "Yes, I know, I feel like knocking his block off too. But he'll pay his penance, and at least there's PFLAG now. Our next project is giving Santana the safety she needs, and wiping Reggie Salazar's campaign off the face of the earth." His voice turned dangerously cheery. "We'll scorch him so mercilessly that not even he'll vote for himself. Won't that be fun, David?"

Beiste and Dave glanced at each other nervously. "Uh... Yeah. Fun."

And that wasn't even the end of the tension, not by a long shot.

Shannon Beiste had long experience in tamping down her emotions, presenting a hard, calm face to the world. So it was with weary routine that she schooled her features and wiped her eyes dry before entering her home.

Dave looked up from the dining room table, books and papers scattered in front of him, brightening as she came into view. "You're back! Man, I'm starving!" He jumped up and swooped over to snatch the takeout bags from her hands. "Shit, that smells good." He opened one and and began poking into the foam boxes. "Here's your linguine with clam sauce, so this must be my spaghetti... Hey, did they give you garlic butter?" She couldn't reply; her throat just... locked up for some reason. No, not "some" reason; she knew exactly why. It was in her head at that very moment. Dave looked up at the silence, his eagerness collapsing into a frown of concern. "Coach...?"

"Y-yeah?" she finally managed to say, cursing herself as soon as the word left her lips for how timid and tremulous it was.

"Is something wrong?"

Every instinct screamed at her not to tell him. It was none of his business, she shouldn't be sharing her personal life with a student, he had enough on his mind without worrying about her as well, he wouldn't be interested in something this petty... "I... I saw Cooter and Sue Sylvester on a date at Breadstix." _Goddammit_. Was it because she'd already shared so much with Dave, and he with her? Because she was emotionally vulnerable, her walls weak? Because she had to talk to _someone_ about this, or go bug nuts? She wasn't sure.

Dave frowned in puzzlement. "I thought he was going out with you?"

"Yeah, well, you know Sylvester ain't the kind of gal to care about that kinda detail."

"You got a point." He sat heavily in one of the dining room chairs; she followed suit. "What'd he say?"

"That our relationship felt more like a friendship. That he was looking for a commitment." She laughed bitterly. "Ain't that a hoot? The _guy_ tellin' the _gal_ that he wants a commitment."

"Is that what you want?" Dave asked quietly.

"I dunno," Beiste said, "but that don't matter."

"Huh?" Dave's frown deepened. "What do you mean it doesn't matter?"

"I can't let Sue take him away from me. I hafta fight for him, fight hard. I _love_ him."

"You love...? I thought you'd only been dating for a few weeks?"

"Why not?" she snapped. "How long did it take you to fall in love with Kurt? And you didn't even _talk_ to him, except to call him a 'fag'." It was hurtful and unfair; she knew that even as her lips formed the words. But somehow, the image of Sue and Cooter, imprinted on her memory, kept her from giving a damn. She was lost, wallowing, and honestly, deep deep down, it made her feel a little better to spread her misery to someone else. She'd feel ashamed later, but that was later. This was now.

A hurt look flashed over Dave's face; she was so lost in her own mind that she hardly registered it. "Okay... Fine. I... I'm..." His hands scrabbled at the takeout boxes. "I'm gonna eat."

"Go ahead," she muttered. "I've lost my appetite." She shoved her linguine into the refrigerator and stalked off to her bedroom. She couldn't sit down at the same table as anyone, not right now. She had to think, to plan, to stew in her pain.

She didn't know what happened after she slammed the door behind her. She wouldn't know for quite a while. But what happened is this:

Dave picked at his spaghetti for a while in silence. His chewing slowed, then ceased; he stuck his plastic fork in the middle of the still significant mound of pasta, watching dully as it slowly tipped over into the rich red sauce. He sighed, then plucked his phone out of his pocket, quickly tapping out words.

\- **can we talk?**

It took about two minutes for a reply to come.

\- **Sure. What's up?**

\- **its kinda serious**

\- **What's the matter, Dave?**

\- **its not me its coach somethings up with her**

\- **Just a moment.**

A couple more minutes passed.

\- **Sorry, Blaine was saying good night.**

\- **i didnt interrupt anything did i**

\- **No, it's fine.**

\- **he seems kinda annoyed with me when we talk**

\- **He's just under some stress lately with his transfer and rehearsals. He's fine with you, I promise. So what's up?**

\- **well its like this...**

* * *

 **Extraordinary Merry Christmas**

This year, Beiste approached Christmas with a distinct sense of trepidation. Dave was still staying at her home, his parents showing no more sign of accepting him — all of him — than when he'd first arrived (though thankfully, there was just as little sign that legal authorities were getting involved). Calls from the Karofsky home had ratcheted up as the holidays drew nearer, but Dave didn't take a single one of them; Beiste answered them all, and she was bitterly disappointed (though not surprised) each time. Still, she could hear it in Paul Karofsky's voice whenever he was the one on the other end of the line — he was wavering. Not much, but a little more each time.

Maybe, just maybe, there was hope there.

Not that that would do Dave any good in the here and now. He became more and more withdrawn as Christmas got closer; it didn't take a genius to figure out why. Beiste was tempted to bring out some good old fashioned Christmas cheer in an attempt to lighten his mood, but it was pretty clear what kind of effect that would have in the end.

What was worse, she sometimes wondered: not knowing where these hormone driven teenage moods were coming from... or knowing _exactly_ where they were coming from?

She sat down with Kurt and Blaine to discuss this issue; she could've turned to her online resources, but something like this needed people who personally knew Dave and his situation. "... And I can't replace his family. Even if they need replacin', that's one thing I'll never be able to be for him." She folded her hands in front of her on her desk. "So I was hopin' you boys had ideas."

Both teenagers frowned in thought. "Well..." Kurt began, "one of us could invite him to share Christmas with us..."

"But I'm not sure that's any better than what Coach Beiste could do," Blaine pointed out.

"That's true. He needs something to take his mind off his own memories, and seeing happy Christmas families will do just the opposite..."

"Say!" Blaine said, straightening in his chair. "What about Coach Sylvester's charity thing?"

Beiste blinked; the words "charity" and "Sue Sylvester" clashed badly in her mind. But then, various events of the past year had demonstrated that she actually had a kernel of what could possibly be called a "heart," much to her surprise. "What's that?"

"Coach Sylvester wanted New Directions to perform at a homeless shelter she's volunteering at. But we're filming a Christmas special for the local PBS station for Artie..." Beiste kept her mouth shut. "... But that kind of work would be perfect for Dave! It'll give him some perspective..."

"Blaine!" Kurt hissed.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Blaine said hastily. "I meant that it would give him a chance to let him feel good about something he's doing for a change. You said he wanted to make up for what he did to you, right? Why not give him that opportunity, except, you know... Not with you?"

"Huh..." Kurt said thoughtfully, "that's actually not a bad idea."

"No, it's not," Beiste said. "Hell, Cooter and I may join in too. Sounds like a fine way to get Dave outta his own head, and help some people in the bargain."

Cooter, as it turned out, had family holiday plans (which was unfortunate; Beiste was actually kind of looking forward to rubbing her relationship in Sylvester's face a little — hey, she was human like anyone else), so it was only Dave who needed convincing. "I dunno..." he said dully, his eyes glued on the TV — but Beiste wondered whether any of what he was watching was even registering in his mind. "Working for Christmas?"

"Hey, these are people who gotta work hard just to _survive_ ," Beiste said, even as she doubted Dave truly had any heart behind his objections. She was fairly sure that he would've just stayed in bed, cocooned in his blankets, until spring if he were allowed to. All the more reason to press. "You gotta get out and do _something_. At least this way you get to help people who've also got it bad in life. Maybe you'll feel a little better about yourself." He didn't reply — not that he needed to. "C'mon," she said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "I'm assertin' my authority as your coach. We're doin' this."

Dave sighed. "Okay. _Fine_."

When the time came, getting him dressed and out the door was rather what Beiste imagined corralling an eight year old on a school day was like. She didn't blame him, but that didn't keep her from being annoyed nonetheless. When they arrived at the homeless shelter, she was still a _little_ surprised to find Sue Sylvester was actually there. Beiste was so used to expecting the worst out of Sue — and not being disappointed — that finding out that she actually had some humanity buried deep (deep, deep) down was still a shock. Sam Evans and Quinn Fabray were the only members of New Directions present; they were busy enough that they only nodded briefly to Dave and Shannon to greet them. (Though even that level of comfort and friendliness was only born out of the PFLAG group; Beiste had seen it herself, the slow thawing of the glee club's reactions towards Dave, as week after week passed and he continued to attend the meetings and sometimes actually participated. There was a reason they offered their help during that fateful meeting after Dave left home: they seemed to finally accept that Dave was on the level.)

Sue immediately sent the two of them on various tasks: cooking, setting up tables and chairs, preparing the food line. When the doors opened to admit the hungry attendees, Beiste found herself gasping at the crowd that pressed in. Lima was such a small town, yet it still managed to produce all these people had _nothing_ for Christmas... She glanced at Dave; he looked a little discombobulated himself.

The next hour passed quickly in a whirl of faces, plates, and steaming scoops of food. At one point, Dave served some mashed potatoes to a little girl, not any older than six, who was accompanied by her mother. She looked up at Dave and said, very politely, "Thank you, sir." Then she moved on, but Dave stared after her with a blank expression for so long that the next patron snapped his fingers in front of Dave's face to get him to return to reality.

As the evening progressed, and the food dwindled ever further down, Dave began loosening up. When the occasional patron wished him a merry Christmas, or just made some random small talk, he actually started replying. One older woman outright flirted with him; he laughed and blew her a kiss, much to her delight. He spooned out just a little extra to one particularly gaunt man, who nodded to him gratefully. He did a double take at a scruffy young man who went through the line. When he'd gone, Dave whispered to Beiste, "I think I knew that guy. I remember him being a senior when I was a freshman. God, what happened...?"

"Who knows," she muttered back. "Could be a lot of things. Could be anything. Makes you think, huh?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "It does."

Beiste had completely forgotten about New Directions, but she was still relieved when they arrived, presents and fresh supplies in hand. She found herself glad that she had kept her counsel when she'd talked to Kurt and Blaine; it was more meaningful, them coming around on their own.

As song and laughter rang through the shelter, Beiste caught sight of Dave. He was watching the glee club perform, but his eyes were focused on one particular face, his own so full of joy and longing that it was almost painful.

Blaine took his own glance in their direction, then quickly looked away.

When they got home, Beiste stopped Dave before he retreated to the bathroom. "How're you feeling?"

Dave paused, then said, "I... guess okay? I mean, life still sucks, but... You were right. It feels good to actually do something to make it suck a little less for _someone_."

She nodded and smiled. "Hey, how about tomorrow, we catch a movie, my treat?"

"Hell, yeah! How about the new Mission Impossible movie?"

"Actually, I wanted to catch the Sherlock Holmes sequel."

"Play you poker for it?"

"Hah, you're on!"

In the end, it wasn't a bad Christmas. She might not have been able to spend it with the man she loved, but she still managed to spend it with someone she cared about. And that made it so much less lonely that it was like night and day.

* * *

 **Yes/No**

Kurt knocked rapidly on the door. His sigh misted the air as he waited impatiently. Finally, the door creaked open.

"Hey, Kurt," Dave said as he stepped aside to admit him in. He stepped inside, gratefully feeling the warmth of central heating on his face. Behind him, Dave poked his head outside. "Blaine not here?"

"He's busy," Kurt said. Dave shut the door, and led him into the living room. "What's going on, Dave? You sounded really serious on the phone..."

"Here." Dave held out a small piece of paper. Kurt took it and read the following words:

 _Dave: There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna say it: Cooter and I have gotten married. We're having ourselves a little honeymoon, then we're coming back to live in Lima. He's moving in, but I promise you'll still have a home with us as long as you need it. I haven't told him about you, but I think you should tell him yourself. I trust him completely. We'll be back by Sunday. I've left some money on the counter, and you can have anything you want in the fridge. Call me if you need me._

 _— Coach_

Kurt slowly looked up from the paper in shock. "Wow."

Dave sat on the couch, his face drawn and haggard. "Yeah," was all he said.

Kurt sat next to him. "Are you... Are you okay?"

"Yeah... I think so. I mean, it's not like I was the one who got married, or that I'm gonna be kicked out. It's just... You know."

"I know." Memories of a text message conversation flitted into Kurt's mind. "Have you met Mr. Menkins?"

"Yeah. He seems all right, I guess, but I dunno... I just don't feel comfortable when he's around. I don't know why. I know that sounds stupid..."

"No, it doesn't. My dad's always told me to trust my instincts; it's just your brain picking up and interpreting little cues that you don't consciously notice. If you feel something is off about him—"

"That's just it! I don't _know_ what I think! Maybe I was just, I dunno, prejudiced or something against him because he's dating Coach. I just..." Dave threw up his arms in frustration. "This whole thing doesn't feel right, but I can't say why, and there's nothing I could do even if I could. Coach has made up her mind. And now..." He waved at the note. "It's too late."

Kurt gripped Dave's shoulder tightly. It was a gesture he'd made casually many times before, as had Blaine, during their deeper conversations with Dave about his sexuality, his family, and his life. Despite that, he never noticed the slight trembling and tension that shot through Dave's muscles when he did that — probably because at such times, Dave usually already had reason to be tense. "Dave, calm down," he said soothingly. "You're right that there's nothing you can do... right now. But maybe there's nothing to worry about. Maybe their marriage will work out. More unusual relationships have survived."

"God, I hope you're right. That's what I've been trying to tell myself for weeks now. But all I keep thinking is—"

The phone rang. Kurt nearly jumped at the sound; as a modern teenager, he'd halfway forgotten what a landline sounded like. Dave leaped to his feet and almost stumbled over himself running for the phone; he was obviously hoping it was Coach Beiste calling.

"Hello?" Dave immediately paled. "D-dad?" Now Kurt was on his feet, an electrical charge running through his spine. "I... I'm fine. What are you—?" He could see Dave's knuckles whiten, and almost thought he could hear the headset creak under his grip. "But I didn't know— No, Dad, don't—" Dave's eyes were starting to brim with tears; Kurt forced himself to sit back, for now. "Then fuck you! I'm not coming home, not until Mom— Don't tell me she loves me! Not when she wants to ship me off to Father Mitchell's fucking camp! I— That's not—! Will you fucking _listen_ to me?! Are you or are you not gonna let Mom send me to that camp?" Kurt found himself holding his breath in the ensuing silence. "No, I won't," Dave finally said, his voice breaking in the middle of the last word. "Stop, Dad. Just... stop." He wiped away snot on the back of his hand. "Don't call here again." His voice turned low, growling; it was more terrifying than any scream or screech could've been. "Not until you and Mom decide you can accept me for who I am... Yeah, I mean it. Good— Goodbye, Dad."

Dave slammed the phone back onto its cradle. Blindly, he groped for the couch through his tears, practically falling into a seated position. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving, soundless except for a brief, high pitched whine.

 _Now_.

Kurt sat next to him and threw his arms around Dave's shoulders. He reacted by returning the embrace, gripping at Kurt like a drowning man. He still didn't make any sound, but Kurt could feel the first hints of moisture seep through his sweater. He tightened his grip, waiting.

He didn't say anything to Dave. What _could_ he say? What could he say to a teenager who was finding out that everything he feared about being gay was coming true? Kurt knew that kind of fear — knew it all too well. He couldn't imagine finding out his fears were justified. The very _thought_ of Burt Hummel turning his back on him sent cold chills up his spine. His (stupid, misplaced, unjustified) guilt increased. But that was his burden, not Dave's.

Finally, after long long minutes, Dave's grip began to slacken, his breathing evening. His head slowly, painfully rose, his eyes red from tears, his face red from rubbing against Kurt's shoulder. Still shaking, he reached out with trembling hand towards the coffee table, missing the tissue box on it by a good foot. Kurt wordlessly nudged it closer; Dave ripped off a tissue and pressed it into his face. Only when his eyes and face were dry (but no less red) did he speak. "He said..." Dave sniffled. "He said that Mom loves me, and couldn't I just try to compromise with her..."

"I'm so sorry..."

"No, I expected this. I've always known what would happen." He blew his nose into the tissue. "He... he also said he's been calling for days now. So why didn't I know...?"

"Coach Beiste must have been screening her calls. Because she knew this would happen."

Dave nodded absently, his eyes unfocused and bleary. "Can't blame her. If it weren't for blocking, I wouldn't be using my phone either. I just... I wish..."

"I know, Dave," Kurt said softly. "I know."

"Fuck my life," he said bitterly, throwing the soaked, wadded up tissue onto the coffee table. Kurt didn't react with even a dram of the outraged disgust he would have under most circumstances. "Karma's a bitch, isn't it?"

"None of that talk," Kurt said sternly. "Nobody deserves what you're going through. Everyone should have a supportive and loving family, and we shouldn't be picking and choosing who's worthy of being treated like a human being. As far as I'm concerned, gay and human rights are all or nothing: if it's withheld from anyone, regardless of who they are, then it's not safe for anyone."

"I suppose, but—"

Kurt shook his head. "Look, think about it this way: I'm an aggrieved party here..."

"A what?"

"A 'victim.'" He put air quotes around the last word. "I frankly hate that word — even more so applying it to myself. But my point is, I was one of the ones who got bullied, so I think I have the right to some input here on what you do or do not 'deserve'. And I'll repeat what I told you before prom: you. Are. Forgiven. And not for nothing either; if you hadn't been putting in effort to demonstrate that you're not that guy anymore, I wouldn't have had anything to do with you. Honestly, there was a time when I never thought you'd be capable of being or doing anything better, but here you are, proving me wrong."

"That's Coach," Dave muttered, averting his eyes. "Not me."

"But you're still doing it. You're still making the effort, above and beyond what she expects of you. You didn't _have_ to be in _West Side Story_ — which you were excellent in, by the way..."

"Oh, Christ, stop it," he grumbled. "Besides, Coach made me do that too."

"Mm, it's nice having her as an excuse, isn't it?"

"Fuck you, Hummel!"

"Charming," Kurt said sweetly. "I suppose that just proves that one's sexuality doesn't automatically make one witty or cultured." Dave's eyes rolled. "Ah! I think I see a little crack of a smile there!"

"You're hallucinating. And you sound like my aunt Doris."

"Well, I never!"

"Even more now." The little crack had grown into a bigger smirk; Kurt hadn't planned it that way, but it was still welcome, even if it was out of Dave slipping back a little into being the oafish boor he once was.

"With an attitude like that, you'll never get into New Directions."

"And like I keep telling you, I'm not _interested_ in being in the fucking glee club."

"Still think it's for losers and 'faggots,' do you?"

Dave pouted. "That's not it, and you know it!" Indeed Kurt did; it had been a topic of many a conversation (" _Way_ too many," Dave would probably say) — conversations that weren't so much discussions as an endless tennis game: volley ("Your friends don't want me there.") after volley ("You don't know that.") after volley ("Just because I like performing a little doesn't mean I want to do it all the time.") after volley ("Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't have fun with the halftime show and the musical, and I'll stop asking.") after volley ("You really think I can stay invisible if I join?") after volley ("... Okay, no. I don't have an answer for you on that one."). In fact, "game" was a rather accurate term for it. As he'd told Blaine many a time, the sheer surreality of playing _any_ kind of game with Dave Karofsky was rather off-putting if he thought about it.

So he tried his best not to.

Kurt gave what little reassurances he could, and only left after Dave practically shoved him out, insisting that he do something with his life "besides following me around like a mother hen." He found out later how Coach Beiste's return had gone...

 _"So where's your... husband?"_

 _"Packing for the move. Things okay while I was gone?"_

 _"Yeah."_

 _"He'll be all moved in by next week or so. You'll still have your room; he'll be bunkin' with me, of course..."_

 _"Sure. Whatever."_

 _"... Look, Dave, I know this ain't ideal..."_

 _"I just don't...! I'm not... comfortable around him..."_

 _"I'm sure you'll see him the way I do once he's here and you get to know him. In fact, I still think you should come out to him. It'd be good practice for when you're ready..."_

 _"I don't know..."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _"I... I can't explain..."_

 _"You know that don't give me any reason to change my mind, don't you?"_

 _"I do! It's just... This is all happening so_ fast _...!"_

 _"I know, I know... It's pretty chaotic around here, ain't it? But that's one big reason we got hitched: to settle down. Things'll be better now. You'll see."_

 _"Are you_ really _sure...?"_

 _"I don't like you questioning my judgment, Dave. Not on the field, and not at home. It's my life, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't butt in. You're just a kid..."_

 _"So I don't know any better, is that it?"_

 _"No! It's just that you haven't gone through a lot of life yet..."_

 _"Oh, I think I've gone through plenty!"_

 _"That's not the—! Look, you've got enough problems in your own life. Worry about yourself, not me. Got it?"_

 _"... Yeah. Got it."_

 _"Where are you going?"_

 _"For a run."_

 _"Okay. Fine. I need some time alone myself. Go."_

 _"Yeah. I'm going."_

... And it wasn't good.

"Things will work out, Kurt," Blaine said, over and over. "Things will work out. You just need to step back a little. Coach Beiste and Dave are stubborn people; they won't listen if you try to push. Just wait and watch. If things get bad, then you can figure something out, but I think you need to let it go for the time being."

He was right, of course — helped along by the fact that Kurt had no idea what to _do_ to begin with.

He only wished that he could shake the feeling that he was watching the Titanic plunge headlong towards that iceberg...

* * *

 **Heart**

"You sure this is a good idea, Dave?" Beiste asked gently.

"No," Dave replied at once as he shook out the gorilla costume. "But I have to. If I don't, I'll fucking explode. I can't— I have to tell him. Even if he rejects me, even if he never wants to see me again... If I have to sit next to him at those fucking meetings one more afternoon, him so close and me _screaming_ in my head that I want him..." He stared down at the glossy black fur for a moment, the fabric bunching up in his clenched hands. "I'll go insane."

"What about Blaine? I thought he was your friend too."

"Kind of? I mean, he's helping me, but I get the feeling it's because Kurt would bitch at him until doomsday if he didn't. I don't think he really likes me all that much." He shrugged. "Not that I can blame him. But I can't think about him right now. I can't. I just need to get this off my chest."

"I don't know why you're bothering," Cooter Menkins rumbled from behind the newspaper as he lounged on the couch. "Kid like him... Might as well date a girl, y'know?"

Both Beiste and Dave threw a glare at him, glares that he completely failed to see. Dave did end up coming out to him — reluctantly, only because he figured that he'd never be able to hide living under the same roof as the man. Menkins had just shrugged, saying, "You're not one of my prospects. What do I care?" To Beiste, that was vindication, even if Dave continued to treat her husband like a troublesome housecat, with glares and grunts and perfunctory acknowledgments, if acknowledgements were made at all. She'd lectured him about respect and family more than once, but it just didn't seem to be getting through... Although if he'd been obsessing about this all this time, that would be explanation enough right there...

"I just... We don't get along," Dave said once.

"Well, try." To be fair, Cooter didn't seem to be trying particularly hard either... Maybe she should bring that up to him, see what happened...

"Look, kid," Beiste said, returning to the here and now, "I know I ain't going to stop you, and I do understand what you're feelin'. I just... I'm worried about you, Dave. This... This thing..."

"I know it's stupid. I know I shouldn't be doing this. I know there's a hundred reasons why this is probably the worst idea I've ever had. But I also know there's a one in a million chance that this won't blow up in my face, and that he might..." He shook his head. "I have to try. I can't stay up one more night wondering." His voice dropped so low that Beiste could barely hear his next words. "I have to tell the truth for once in my fucking life."

Beiste began her pacing almost the minute the door shut behind Dave. "Damn, woman," Cooter griped, "calm down. The kid'll be fine."

"You didn't see him before," she said.

"He's not your problem. His parents don't want to take their head out of their asses, there's the state. And what about that friend of his, the one he's gonna be proposin' to tonight...?"

"I told you, he's my player. He's my student. That _makes_ him my responsibility." Her voice was turning peevish.

Cooter took a swig of beer. "Don't take that tone with me, Shannon. I don't like it."

She snorted. "There's a lot you don't like, ain't there?"

He whirled on her, a dangerous gleam in his eye that made her actually physically recoil — she, who'd faced down bullies and male football players with several inches and pounds on her, and she was no delicate sunflower. But Cooter just growled deep in his throat and took another drink of beer.

They were actually still in practically the same positions, doing practically the same things, when Dave returned a couple of hours later. The gorilla costume was under his arm, and he was practically dragging himself over the threshold.

"Lemme guess," Cooter said with a sneer. "He fell all over ya and you two got hitched?" Dave didn't speak, didn't look up, didn't even acknowledge Cooter's words were even spoken. He just slid into a chair, head bowed, silent.

"Honey," Beiste said with gritted teeth, "why don't ya go wash up an' get ready for bed?"

Cooter shot an annoyed glare at his wife. "You tellin' me what to do? Tellin' me to hit the showers, like I'm one of your players?"

"No, it's just a _suggestion_. Darlin'."

The atmosphere was heavy, as if with humidity. Dave alone took no notice of the weight, or of anything except whatever was in his head, for that matter. Finally, Cooter got up and stalked off petulantly. Beiste winced at the wall-shaking door slam that followed; she'd probably need to fix that later.

But right now, there was something else that needed fixing.

She hunkered down next to Dave, who was staring down at the costume in his lap... Or maybe he was staring at nothing. Or perhaps staring at memories, at scenes that played out live before those eyes just hours before. "Dave..." she said gently. No reply. "Dave, if you need to talk, I'm here."

"I don't know why I had hope," he said, so suddenly she was almost startled. "I don't know why I thought... I don't know why I thought he felt anything for me but pity..."

"Oh, no, honey, Kurt doesn't _pity_ you. He's worried about you, like I am." She gently stroked his hair, a gesture she knew was almost... motherly, but she couldn't bring herself to give a damn about sending wrong signals or any of that bullcrap. The kid was hurting, and he needed _something_. Or someone. "Dave, I know this feels like the end of the world, like nothin' good will ever happen to you again, but I promise you, it's not. You've got your whole life ahead of you. I know you've heard all the time there's plenty of fish in the sea, but it's _true_. And... you're worthy of love, I promise you are. You'll love someone else, someone worthy of you — and he'll love you back."

"Whatever." There was no heat, no emotion, to the words... Just a weariness and resignation that made Beiste's soul ache just hearing.

"You are, and you're gonna believe that if I have to drag you over to a counselor myself. You need help, Dave — you've got this twisted view of yourself that just ain't true. I know that your mom and your pastor's screwed with your head so much, but if you could see yourself the way I see ya, the way I _know_ Kurt sees ya... You gotta believe in yourself, kid. You gotta trust that you're a good an' worthwhile person, and that this ain't the end if you don't want it to be the end. Even if you and Kurt aren't ever more than friends, that's got nothing to do with you, and he's not the only guy you're ever gonna love." She gently touched his shoulder. "You listenin' to me? 'Cause I'm giving ya extra reps next practice if you start ignorin' me now."

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I just need some time to think. That okay?"

Beiste sighed, standing. "I understand. Just... I'm here, okay?"

"I know."

Beiste felt pretty sure that if she turned off the lights, that he wouldn't move a muscle — that he would just sit like that, eyes open and unseeing, maybe even unblinking, until the sun rose. Perhaps the nerves were too raw now, the pain too fresh. Maybe after some time, the wounds would scab over, and he'd _listen_.

That didn't mean that leaving that young man sitting in that chair, his heart in pieces in his lap, wasn't one of the toughest things she'd ever had to do in her life.

* * *

 **On My Way**

The first time Dave called was during lunch. Kurt didn't feel the vibration of his cell phone; he was too busy talking about the upcoming Hudson-Berry nuptials with his equally disbelieving friends.

The second time was during a chemistry pop quiz, and this one Kurt felt, though of course he couldn't answer then, and it was quickly forgotten in the heat of academic adrenaline. ("That's not your fault," Blaine told him later. He wished he could believe that.)

The third time, he almost missed it again, almost drowned out by his post-rehearsal energy, but he managed to pluck his cell phone out just before it switched to voicemail. It was only then that he saw the other two attempts, and bit his lip. Dave was out sick with the flu, convalescing at home... Or the place that played the role of home these days.

Dave kept insisting that things were "okay" between them, that he'd put Valentine's Day behind him, that he was dealing with his feelings and that he wanted to remain friends. Kurt hoped that he was telling the truth (or enough of it), for both their sakes. But just being around Dave felt like sneaking through a cactus patch, if only for the residual tension from Dave alone. Blaine had suggested that they both step back for a while, which was probably good advice, but with the PFLAG work (so many flyers, so many discussions, so many plans), it was difficult to keep the club afloat without interacting closely with one's co-founder. So Kurt soldiered on, as Kurt was wont to do, and tried to treat their... _relationship_ so normally that the reality would bend itself to his will and _become_ normal.

So far, he was failing.

In fact, the most the two talked these days were at PFLAG meetings and planning sessions, besides perfunctory e-mails and text messages. He wondered which of them was more afraid that further communication would cause Dave to break out into spontaneous declarations of love all over again. For Dave to be calling, and calling so insistently...

God, what if his mother had decided to call the police after all?

Without another moment's hesitation, he dialed Dave's number. The phone trilled once. Then twice. Then three times. Then four. Finally, he picked up.

"K-Kurt..."

The voice on the other end was choked with mucus. Kurt's heart did flip-flops in tandem with his stomach. "Dave? What's the matter?"

"I... I need to talk to you. Right now. It's..." He sniffled. "It's really important."

"Are you safe, Dave? Is it your parents—?"

"No... Just hurry. Please."

All thoughts of awkwardness and tension were forgotten. Kurt actually shoved his way past a gaggle of lingering sophomores as he sprinted towards his car, taking no note of their annoyed glares and shaking heads over arrogant seniors. "Okay, Dave, I'm on my way. I need to hang up, but promise me you'll just sit tight and keep yourself safe until I get there?"

"It's not me who's in trouble," he rasped, and the connection went dead.

Well. He had absolutely no idea whether to be reassured or not. Heart pounding in his ears, he pulled out of his parking space and sped off. The entire way to Coach Beiste's place, his main mental mantra was _Keep under the speed limit. Obey the stoplights. Keep under the speed limit. Obey the stoplights._ This wasn't just for Dave's sake; if he had to deal with a traffic cop under this emotional state, he could very well end up in jail, and he had no desire to make acquaintances with even a small town's seedy element.

When he finally screeched to a halt in a fortuitous space not far from Coach Beiste's front door, his seat belt was already undone, and he threw open the door before he even put the car into park. He could never remember finding the front door unlocked; as far as he could ever recall, he was slipping out of the driver's seat one moment, and was charging into Beiste's home the next.

He would, however, always remember what he saw then.

The living room was in chaos. Books, papers, and magazines were scattered all over the floor. Couch pillows were leaning against the walls as if thrown there. Nestled on one of these pillows was a cracked remote control; Kurt couldn't help but notice the black scuff mark on the wall right above it. In the middle of it all was Dave, dressed in a faded t-shirt and shorts. He was red-faced and sniffling, eyes bleary and staring at nothing in particular, his hands bunched into white-knuckled fists. He didn't even acknowledge Kurt's presence, just breathing hard, sharp breaths. It didn't escape Kurt that he felt no discomfort in that moment, no fear, both emotions almost entirely overtaken by concern. But that also meant he didn't — couldn't — stop to figure out what that meant, if anything.

"Dave?" Kurt asked gently. Dave started, much harder than he should have at that soft sound. "Dave, I'm here. What's the matter?"

"Kurt..." His entire body seemed to turn into Jell-O all at once; he sank heavily, in almost a slithery fashion, onto the couch. Kurt was sitting by his side in an instant. He didn't even think about touching his shoulder, but the instant he did, he too almost jerked it away. Dave's skin was burning hot — though whether this was due to fever or emotion or both, he couldn't tell. "I'm so fucking glad you're here..."

"Tell me what's wrong. Please. I want to help if I can."

"It..." He swallowed and sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "Coach..." His voice turned gravelly with burgeoning anger, a rumbling that Kurt hadn't heard in a long time, and didn't miss, not by a long shot.

When Dave didn't continue, Kurt spoke. "Coach Beiste's fine. I saw her this morning. What's happened? Is she—?"

"Her husband's fucking _beating_ her, all right?!" Dave burst out, practically spraying Kurt's face with spittle. It vaguely occurred to Kurt that he should be glad that he'd had his flu shot, but only vaguely, because Dave's words were starting to sink in.

"W-what...?" he gasped in horror.

"I heard him do it... Last night. They thought I was out cold on NyQuil. I think... I think it's been going on for a while, while I've been asleep." Dave's voice turned squeaky and high pitched. "It's been happening right next to me, and I never saw it..."

"Oh, Dave..."

"He's been getting drunk and hitting her, Kurt. I was too sick to even get up to stop him, and when I woke up this morning, they'd already left, and I was so angry I would've gone out to find and fuck up that fucking son of a bitch if I weren't still sick..."

That obviously explained the state of the living room — that and whatever the fever was doing to Dave's thinking and judgment. Speaking of which... "Dave, you know this isn't your fault, right?"

"He's been _beating_ her and I haven't done anything..."

"Because you didn't know. Abuse victims can be very good at hiding, even from people under their own roof."

"But I can do something this time. I can not be the fucking bully, I can stop it this time..."

"What do you mean, 'this time'...?" Oh. _Oh_... "Dave, this is nothing like what you did. _Nothing_."

"What's the difference?" Dave asked bitterly. "There's nothing that can justify what he did, and the same with me. Me and him, we're the same..."

Kurt physically turned Dave's face towards him. "No, you're not," he said tightly. "You did what you did out of fear and ignorance. It may not justify anything, but it's at least a reason. There's _no_ reason for a spouse to abuse another spouse. None, not even if he were blackout drunk. There are so few similarities between you two that I can't even _start_ to express what a ridiculous notion it is." Dave said nothing, but his eyes were at least focused on Kurt, so he was paying attention. Good. Hopefully, this was getting through to him. "You can't help Coach if you're beating yourself up for something that I've already forgiven you for. Focus on _her_ , all right?"

Dave nodded. "She's one of the only people who cares about me and she's being beaten and I can't let her get hurt like that and I'm going to kill him, I swear to fucking God..."

"Dave, calm down. You're in no state to do anything, even if that were the right thing to do. We'll help Coach Beiste, I promise, but first you need to _calm down_ , okay?" He squeezed Dave's shoulder. "You trust me, don't you?" Dave nodded dumbly. "Then just listen to my voice, okay?" he said soothingly. Perhaps he was taking advantage of Dave's feelings for him, in a sense, but he couldn't bring himself to give a damn. "Just listen to my voice and breathe. Don't think about anything else..." Dave's shoulder began to unwind under Kurt's hand, the rise and fall of his chest steadying. He was actually stepping back from the edge.

What happened right then was, as far as Kurt was concerned, proof positive for the non-existence of God.

The door swung open, and in walked Coach Beiste and Cooter Menkins. Well, Beiste was walking; Cooter was more unsteady on his feet. They froze at the sight before them: two teenagers sitting in the middle of a whirlwind mess.

"What the _hell_ is going on?!" Beiste demanded.

Both boys were on their feet. Dave's eyes were blazing, and Kurt's stomach lurched for the second time that day.

"What'd you do?" Cooter snarled. "Shannon feeds you, lets you live here, and _this_ is the thanks she gets, you ungrateful—"

"Ungrateful?!" Dave advanced on Cooter until they were practically nose-to-nose. "Like you can talk about being ungrateful, you fucking _wife beater_."

The room was dead silent. Kurt couldn't even hear his own breath or heartbeat.

"Dave..." Beiste began, a tremble in her voice, "he's not—"

"I _heard_ him!" Dave shouted. "Last night! If I hadn't been so sick, I would've—"

"You would've _what_?" Cooter sneered. "You think you can take me, kid?"

"Any day. You're probably too much of a fucking coward to hit someone who'll hit back..."

"You wanna try me, you little _punk_?"

Cooter shoved Dave in the chest, hard. He staggered back; both Kurt and Beiste yelled a different one of two names at the same time. Dave roared, an incoherent, almost animal-like cry of rage, easily shaking off Kurt's attempt at a grip and launching himself at Cooter. The only reason his swinging fists didn't hit their mark was that Beiste just happened to pull back on her husband in her own attempt to break up the impeding fracas. But he also yanked his arm away, and took his own swing at Dave. He too missed, and they grabbed onto each other shoulders like wrestlers, all grunts and whirling limbs.

Part of Kurt wanted to cheer Dave on. Another, bigger part told him that the outcome could very well end up being Dave in jail and a permanent rift opened between him and the coach. "Stop this!" he yelled. "Stop this, both of—" He made another attempt to grab at Dave's arm, but the two struggling men twisted around, and Cooter's flailing fist struck Kurt square in the cheek. Crying out in surprise and pain, he fell backwards, his butt landing heavily onto the coffee table. He rolled off it, more in shock than in agony, the cool floor almost a relief under his skin. It took him a moment to regain his bearings. As he slowly got to his feet, shaking his head to banish the cobwebs of pain, and humiliation, it sank into Kurt's mind that the room was awfully quiet all of a sudden. It was only when the others returned to his field of vision that he saw why.

Cooter Menkins was the most neutral, emotionally; he was just staring at Kurt in something like dumb surprise. Beiste was gaping at all of them, equally silent.

But Dave...

Dave was boring holes in Cooter Menkins with his eyes, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple, breathing through clenched teeth. If Dave was angry before... He looked positively, almost literally _murderous_ now.

He raised shaking hands that formed twisted claws, reaching towards Cooter's neck.

 _"I think I love you..."_

The adrenaline surged through Kurt in a hot rush. He immediately planted himself between Dave and Cooter, not even thinking of the distinct possibility he'd be hit again. A whiff of cheap beer met his nostrils; it was coming from Cooter. Kurt had to think to confirm to himself that yes, it wasn't even 6 pm. If he had any doubts about what Dave thought was happening, he didn't anymore.

"Dave," he said with calm he did not at all feel. The name was like a needle pricking a balloon; his voice, the sight of his face, seemed to literally deflate Dave. The color drained from his cheeks, and his shaking claws lowered. "Dave, I think we should go."

"Good idea," Beiste said behind him; he heard the shuffling of feet on the floor, but he didn't dare look back. "Take him and get out."

He gently put one of his hands over one of Dave's; the other boy stared down at their joined hands as if he only now noticed they even had them. "Come with me, Dave. I'm going to take you to my house. You can get better there, okay?"

"But..." he rasped, "Coach..."

"Coach Beiste is a grown woman," Kurt said, lowering his voice. His cheek was beginning to throb; he hoped there wouldn't be a bruise. "We can't make her do anything she doesn't want to do. The best thing we can do right now is regroup and figure out our next move. And I promise, Dave, there _will_ be a next move. But you can't help her right now, not when the situation is this tense and you're still sick." He finally took the risk of glancing behind him; Beiste was whispering in her own low tones to her husband, who had his back to the two teenagers. He wondered just what Cooter looked like right then. "Please, Dave..." God, was he really going there? Yes, he was; it was necessary, and Dave probably wouldn't remember tomorrow morning anyway. "For me?"

"Go, Dave," Beiste's voice echoed.

All of Dave's adrenaline seemed to be draining from him... Or perhaps his illness was catching up with him. He nodded drearily, letting Kurt gently guide him to the door. Neither boy looked back; they couldn't.

As soon as they were in the car, Kurt turned up the heater; it was winter, and Dave still only had on his t-shirt and shorts — not, he was sure, that Dave actually noticed the cold. He stared out the windshield with unseeing eyes as Kurt drove the two of them home.

Once there, he led Dave up the front walk and into the house. His dad and Carole were watching the news on TV. "Is that you, Kurt?" the latter's voice called out as he shut the door behind him. "Dinner's almost ready, and—" The rest of her sentence choked off as she turned and saw Dave. Burt Hummel did too, and both the adults rose.

"Kurt?" his father said. "Good God, what's going on? How'd you—?"

"I'll explain later." Now that they were out of immediate danger, he felt his energy fading rapidly. He wanted nothing more to slip into bed and sleep for a month, but no, there was still so much to do yet. "Dave is still very sick, and he needs to spend the night here. Can he?"

Husband and wife glanced at each other, then took in what was undoubtedly an odd and disturbing tableau: one teenager dead on his feet, burning with fever, the other mussed and very probably bruised (Kurt winced just at the thought of looking in a mirror, which was why he avoided it the entire drive home). He had no idea what they thought — or feared — had happened, but whatever it was, Carole was immediately rushing forward, taking Dave gently in her arms.

"Of course. Dave, there's a pull out bed in the study. I'll make it, and then I'll bring you some soup, all right? Do you need any medication?"

Dave said nothing, just letting Carole lead him into the hall. Burt Hummel watched them disappear around the corner, then turned a questioning glance at his son.

"Soon, Dad. I need to go out one last time. I promise, I'll be fine. We'll talk when I get back; Dave probably needs to stay longer than just tonight."

"But why—? What happened to—? How—?" Burt's tongue seemed to be tripping over all the questions he wanted to ask. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, shaking his head. "Okay. But if you're not back in half an hour, I'm coming to find you, so you can explain just what the hell is happening."

"Soon, Dad," he repeated as he went out the front door again. His fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel all the way back to Coach Beiste's home. Once again, he'd made a reassurance to his dad that he really wasn't sure he could keep, but more than likely, Coach would have the situation under control somehow.

Indeed, when she answered the door, Cooter Menkins was nowhere to be seen. And it might've just been a trick of shadows, but Kurt could've sworn that Coach's own cheek darkened since he last saw it. "He's sleepin' it off," she said as she admitted Kurt entry. "You here for Dave's things?"

"Yes," Kurt said stiffly. "He's at my house, and he'll likely be staying there at least for the immediate future."

Beiste stared at him for a moment in silence, then nodded. "I think... Yeah. I think that's for the best. His room's the second door on the right." Kurt turned to follow her directions when she spoke again. "There really ain't a problem, you know. Cooter... Cooter loves me. And I love him. Dave's just hearin' things."

Kurt froze. He couldn't even turn to face her, not now, not when she'd drawn Dave into this... this _thing_... It was a cruel and bitter feeling, one he distantly knew was unfair, but Dave wasn't the only teenager whose emotions were running high. "I hope you're right, Coach," he said through a strained throat. "For both your sakes."

He was in and out in less than ten minutes, without another word passing between coach and diva. When Kurt got back home, his parents were once more in the living room; Carole told him that Dave was already asleep. Burt sat him down on the couch and, as delicately as he could, demanded answers.

Kurt just wished he had good ones to give.


	8. Season Three, Part Three

**Saturday Night Glee-ver**

There was a time when Dave Karofsky would've sold his soul to live under the same roof as Kurt Hummel.

So obviously, when his wish actually came true, it happened under circumstances where he couldn't even "enjoy" it. _Fuck my life_ , he thought at least once daily.

Kurt was very kind and very patient during his stay at the Hudson-Hummels', as were Kurt's father and stepmother, but not an hour went by when Dave didn't look down at his cell phone and bring up Coach Beiste's number. He'd stare at it for a few minutes, then switch off his phone again. What could he do to convince her? What could he say that she'd listen to? Every time he tried to plan out words, his stupid caveman brain came up with nothing but a bunch of mush.

It was no comfort that the much smarter Kurt hadn't yet come up with any ideas of his own. It didn't help that they agreed that the fewer people they blabbed to about Coach's problems, the better. "We don't want to make her feel under siege," Kurt said, "or she may dig in her heels even more."

"Yeah, but I don't think I can handle this alone, do you?"

They'd talked to Burt Hummel, and to Ms. Pillsbury (though very carefully), and one theme became very clear: the vast majority of the action had to come from Coach. "As much as you want to, we can't kill Cooter Menkins," Kurt said. "And we can't tie up Coach Beiste and make her move out. We could involve the police, but without Coach backing us up, they won't do anything. We can do our best to show her that she's worth more than him, but in the end, she has to be the one who decides to stop him."

"I can't accept that!" Dave burst out. "She... she saved me, Kurt. She saved my life. I know that sounds all dramatic and shit, but she did. I can't imagine what I might've done without her. God knows what I'd think about being... being gay if she hadn't..." He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair in agitation. "If I can be saved, she can be saved."

"And we _will_ help her, Dave. But we don't want to make things worse, either. We're on the outside of this situation looking in, and that makes things a hell of a lot more complicated." Kurt heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm as frustrated as you are, but we don't have a lot of options. I'll keep on thinking about it and talking with my dad, but..."

Dave nodded dully. "I know you're trying your best, and I'm sorry. I just..." He groaned.

"I know." And dammit, it sounded like he _did_ know.

Fuck, how did he ever think that Kurt Hummel was an enemy, a symbol of horrible thoughts and feelings that had to be destroyed? Was he really _that_ stupid?

Well, he knew the answer to that question. If he hadn't been such a jackass, he might not be in this situation to begin with.

This thing with Coach — shit, his entire _life_ — put Dave in what his dad once charitably called "a hell of a mood." Even though he hadn't thrown a Slushie or shoved anybody for literal years, fellow students were still giving him a wide berth in the halls, just from the glower on his face and the storm clouds hanging over his head alone. Probably not a good image for a PFLAG co-founder, but he really couldn't bring himself to give a damn. That was one reason he managed to have the entire locker room to himself that afternoon; he was apparently scary enough to frighten away fellow athletes (which he couldn't help but take a _little_ pride in). Well, that and the fact that he was used to waiting until the locker room was relatively unused... Showers and all that.

(Huh. His heart rate only jumped a _little_ thinking about that. Maybe he was getting used to knowing he was gay after all.)

He was just pulling on his shirt when a voice said, "What the fuck is going on?" Only when the fabric left his face did he see it was Puck, scowling at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, things are _weird_ around here, and you're in the middle of it somehow." Puck screwed up his face; Dave had no idea what he saw that caused it. "What? I've got eyes. I've seen how Kurt's been looking at you lately."

Dave's heart pounded. "And how's that?"

"Like you're about to explode any second." _Of course_. "And Coach! It's like she can hardly _look_ at you. What the hell did you do, Karofsky?"

Dave seethed. "What makes you think I did anything?"

"You're the one in the middle, what am I supposed to think? Besides, with the shit you used to pull—"

"Fuck!" Dave shouted, actually startling Puck (though he did his best to suppress his reflex). "How long do I have to fucking suffer before you're satisfied? What, it wasn't enough that everyone I care about _hates_ me now? I get it! I'm a fucking joke! A coward! And I'm paying for it and paying for it every single day! Now everything I did has to follow me around forever?!"

"Actually... no." Puck's eyes shifted, his voice softened, all hostility and suspicion somehow... gone, just like that. "You know what _I_ used to do..."

Dave snorted. "Oh, yeah, I fucking remember."

"... But look at me now." He spread his arms, his smile was a shadow — a parody of its usual easygoing nature. "Full blooded gleek, but still a badass." Puck sat down on one of the benches. Dave, for no reason that he could tell (except maybe inertia), sat down on the opposite end. "Look, man, I'm sorry..."

"For what?"

"I had no idea you felt that way. I know how it is, dude."

"How what is?" Dave asked slowly.

"What it's like to feel like nothing you do is ever good enough," Puck replied quietly. "Like everything you do is doomed to fail, and it's your fault, and you can't do jack shit about it."

"I didn't say that—" Not all of it anyway.

"You did, actually. You didn't say it in words, but I heard it." Huh, that was deep — a lot deeper than Dave thought Puck capable. It was then that he really started to actually _listen_ to his teammate. "I... Man, you know how much I've fucked up..."

"Yeah," Dave said before he could stop himself. But Puck just nodded.

"And I try, man, I do _try_ , in ways I never did before. But..." He shook his head. "You should see my grades. Or don't, because you'd throw up. Before, it was because I didn't care, you know? Why should I? But now that I do, they _still_ suck. Glee club's fault, man," he chuckled humorlessly. "If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have learned that I _could_ still be someone."

"Once someone believes in you..." Dave had no idea where the words were coming from — just that they had to be said. "That's it. Once they open your eyes, you can't close them again. No matter how hard you try."

Puck laughed and slapped Dave on the back, hard. "Oh my God, that's it! That's it _exactly_! Shit, man, why haven't we talked before? It would've..." The smile slipped off his face. "It would've made a lot of things a lot more bearable."

"You think so?" Dave asked cynically. "Just because we beat ourselves up over shit?"

Puck shrugged. "Do we need more?" And he did sort of have a point. "And hey, misery loves company, right? If you can't talk to Kurt or Coach, why not me? You know I'm not gonna blab your shit all over the place. Who even listens to me anyway? C'mon, what have you got to lose?"

Not a lot, Dave realized. But he still couldn't tell him about Coach's husband, so was there still a point? Maybe... Maybe just talking to someone who wasn't part of one of his problems would help. He was already doing it in counseling; why not a peer? Puck sure as fuck wasn't going to judge him; they both knew he was in no position to.

Ah, fuck it.

"I'm gay." He hadn't _intended_ to start off that way, but nothing else he could say would make sense otherwise. And hell, it was easier than he thought it'd be. Maybe all the sparkles and rainbows Kurt threw out about being out had some basis in reality after all.

Puck just raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously."

"Wow. Huh. Didn't see that coming. But I guess it explains a few things." Puck stared at Dave thoughtfully. "A lot of things, actually, like you and Kurt being so buddy-buddy. He knows?"

"Yeah. He's been helping me deal with it."

"And so your folks...?"

Dave's head bowed. "Yeah."

"Shit..." He felt Puck squeeze his shoulder briefly. "That sucks."

"You're telling me."

"And Coach?"

Dave hesitated as the words battled his emotions in his mind. "She's... been helping me too."

"So you've got nothing to do with whatever's up with her?"

Dave shook his head. "I... I shouldn't..."

"Okay, right. You want to do something, but you have no idea what, and you're scared as shit that whatever you try, it'll just make everything worse, right?"

Dave looked up at him, startled. "Fuck, you really _do_ know..." he said in a sort of unintended whispered awe.

Puck chuckled. "Maybe I don't know _exactly_ what's going on with you, but I think I can relate. You and me, we're badasses. Nobody thinks anything hurts us, but it does." He slapped Dave on the back. "So that way, we're kinda alike, y'know?"

"Yeah..." Dave nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think I see where you're coming from..."

"Look, Karo— Dave. One thing the glee club's taught me, maybe the most important thing, is that I'm not alone, no matter how much I thought I was. I think it's the same with you. Guys like us... We don't want anyone else to know we're weak. So we pile up all kinds of shit on ourselves, and tell ourselves that if we can't handle it, then we're just a pussy and we deserve it. But... Other people _exist_. And sometimes, they _like_ you, and want to _help_ you. Even if you don't take it, you owe it to them to at least listen, y'know? Even if you think you're a pile of shit, they don't, and pretending like you're not worth their time is just spitting in their faces."

"Yeah. I think... I think I've got you."

"Good, at least one of us does," Puck said, laughing. "Seriously, though, man, I know it's cool to be a loner and all, but sometimes... Sometimes we all need someone else."

"Yeah." Dave sucked in a breath. "For me, that was Coach, for a good long time. And now I want to repay her, but..." He sighed. "It's fucking killing me, you know? I mean, I don't want to be talking about her business everywhere, but I don't want to sit back and watch her suffer either. I want to help her the way she's helped me, but I don't know if she'll let me. She's a good person, and she doesn't deserve—"

"Coach!"

Dave whirled around at Puck's cry. Coach Beiste was standing in the shadow of some lockers, staring at them. How long had she been there? Probably the worst possible answer, whatever it was. She turned and retreated back into the bowels of the building.

He turned back to Puck, who looked a little discombobulated. "You... You think she heard you?" Puck asked.

"Probably."

"Is that... bad?"

"I... I have no idea."

* * *

Their words were mocking her.

 _We pile up all kinds of shit on ourselves, and tell ourselves that if we can't handle it, then we're just a pussy and we deserve it..._

 _I don't want to sit back and watch her suffer either. I want to help her the way she's helped me, but I don't know if she'll let me..._

If she had to be honest, her will had been weakening for quite a while, ever since Dave moved out of her home, when she made the stark realization that she had made a choice between her student and her marriage — or more accurately, herself. She had chosen herself over a young person she had a responsibility to.

 _But the kid had no idea what he was talking about. Cooter isn't—_

But not even an endless list of what Cooter was not changed the basic fact of the choice she had made. No matter what her reasoning, no matter what the circumstances, she made that decision.

Not even Cooter's flares of temper hurt her the way that realization did — not the _same_ way, anyway.

"Coach?" Her head jerked up. Dave was peeking into the office in a scene much the same as one from last year. It was the first time the two had been alone in the same room since he moved out.

"Yes?" She had to clear her throat before she could even get out that one word.

"I just wanted to tell you... You've told me over and over again that you never BS. If you were me, looking at what I saw, knowing what I know... What would you think?" The very air seemed to go still around them. "Well, someone I respect a lot told me that I was worthy of love, and that I had to believe in myself. She... She said that I was a good and worthwhile person, and that someone worthy of me would love me, even if it didn't feel like it. I think... I think she was right. I think she had some really good advice. I think she's someone worth listening to." He nodded to her, and left without another word.

 _Cooter refused to apologize to Kurt._

She had no idea why she remembered that just now. But she very much remembered that sage advice Dave had mentioned.

 _But he's just a kid..._

But she was hardly a child herself, and she was the one who said those words...

 _It's totally different with this, with me!_

How?

 _I love Cooter..._

More than she loved herself?

Not so long ago, she probably would have said yes, without hesitation.

But all she could see was Dave, all she could hear were her own words thrown back at her, and...

Well, she knew then what had to happen.

What followed wasn't easy — not by far. But it had to be done, and Shannon Beiste always did what had to be done.

But in a way, what happened after that was even harder still. She nearly chickened out, much to her shame, before shaking her head, muttering "Get a grip, Shannon," under her breath, and ringing the Hudson-Hummel doorbell.

She wasn't sure if she was relieved or not when it was Kurt who opened the door. One look at her, and his face settled into a cold expression. No, not cold — more like carefully neutral, as if he were steeling himself, watching and waiting. The enormity of what she'd done weighed heavily in her gut. At least this was a good sign of how Dave was probably being treated while living with him. "Coach," he said.

"Is Dave here? I'd like to talk to him." Not a single tremor in her voice. Good, good.

"What did you want to discuss?" The neutrality didn't waver one iota; she couldn't get a handle on the kid at all, dammit.

"Him coming back."

"I see. And what does your husband think about that?"

"Nothing I care about," she said flatly.

Kurt stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he nodded slowly. "I'll go get him." He disappeared into the house, leaving the door ajar; Beiste's ears strained, but all she could pick up were footsteps and the sound of a TV. Then heavy footfalls approached; the door swung open and Dave was there, his face unreadable under the shadows thrown by the cool evening.

"Coach," he said.

"Mind if we talk?"

"Y-yeah, sure." Dave stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door behind him. Beiste thought she could hear something stir inside, but she ignored it. If someone wanted to listen, let them. She'd do the same in their shoes.

"I'm gonna get right to the point," she said. "Cooter's gone. For good."

Dave's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. And if he ever comes near me or touches me again, I'll have the law on him so hard he'll be seeing sugar muffins for weeks."

"I..." Dave hesitated, then started again. "I'm glad," he said bluntly.

Beiste sighed. "Yeah. Me too." She shook her head wryly. "Turns out I had all the answers all along. I just had to be reminded of 'em." She squared her shoulders and looked Dave straight in the eye with all the calm she could muster. "I've missed havin' ya around, and it's awful lonely in that place now." He didn't respond — not at first. So she went on. "I'm sorry..."

"No, it's not your fault," he said with a shake of his own head. "You're the 'victim'." He made air quotes around the last word for some reason. "Kurt and I researched all kinds of things about domestic violence, and..."

"I shouldn't have gotten you involved. It was my life, my deal..."

"A lot of people were worried about you, Coach — not just me and Kurt." Any further words died in her throat. "I'm sorry we told people, but it wasn't many, and we didn't feel like we had a choice. Mr. Hummel was pretty mad. If you hadn't done something, I think he might've." He grinned. "Mr. Menkin's lucky. He got off easy."

"Who said he did?" she said with her own wolfish grin. They both laughed, briefly, before Beiste spoke once more. "But thanks, for reminding me of stuff I should've remembered all the time. You're a good kid, Dave Karofsky."

Dave shook his head violently. "It was nothing."

"It was everything, and don't you forget it."

"I was just paying back everything you've done for me."

"And you think that makes it any less special? Besides, you've paid me back already."

"Seriously? How?"

"You told Puckerman you were gay. Just like that. Didn't so much as stutter." Beiste smiled warmly. "I'm really proud of you, Dave. You've come really far, considerin' where you started out."

She couldn't tell through the shadows, but she felt sure somehow that Dave was blushing. "If you say so," he rumbled.

"I do. So..." She mentally held her breath. "Will you come home, Dave?"

To her relief, he barely hesitated before answering. "Of course."

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. "Good. Need help packin'?"

"Nah, I'll be fine. If I can't grab everything, I'll have Kurt bring the rest."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the faint rustling of grass and the chirping of crickets.

Beiste was the first to speak again. "Mind if I give ya a hug? Just to thank ya?"

Dave nodded silently. The two embraced, warm with gratitude and relief; Beiste found herself wondering how Paul and Debra Karofsky could've been so stupid as to let this boy down.

When they finally separated, Dave wiped his face on his palm; Beiste pointedly ignored it. "Hey... One last thing..."

"Yeah?"

"Puck... He says he hasn't been doing so good in school, and I was wondering if—"

Beiste smiled. "Already one step ahead of ya."

* * *

 **Dance With Somebody**

 _You have to decide, Kurt.  
_

"That's none of your business, Dave," Blaine said curtly as Dave followed him down the halls of McKinley.

"Okay, fine, it's not. I was just worried, that's all."

"As Kurt's _friend_ , right?"

Dave nearly tripped over his own feet, but he recovered smoothly enough to impress even himself. "Right."

"Right," Blaine repeated with a drawl. "Look," he said more gently, "this is between me and Kurt. Whatever happens... That's up to us. If he wants to continue flirting with this Chandler guy—"

"That's just it," Dave interrupted. "Kurt would never do that to you."

"I saw the texts," Blaine replied flatly. "He sure didn't look like he minded to me." He stopped, turning to Dave. "It'll be fine," he said, "one way or another. I'm sure Kurt and I can work something out."

"I hope so," Dave said, biting back the opinions already forming on his tongue. The two started back down the hall again.

"So... How're things going with you and Coach Beiste?"

"That's the first time you've asked me that."

Blaine shrugged. "I've had Kurt keeping me up on all the gory details up to now... Or most of them, anyway. I was just curious."

Dave aped Blaine's shrug. "It's... okay, I guess. A little awkward. Weird. But we're getting along again."

"And your dad...?"

"Yeah. He still wants to talk."

"And you're going to?"

"Coach said he wants to hash things out."

"Why meet him now, after all this time avoiding him?"

"Because... this whole thing with Coach made me realize... I mean, she's been great to me and all, but... They're still my parents. I need to figure things out one way or another. I can't stand being stuck in the middle like this. If they're still sticking to their guns, I at least need to know so I can move on. But if there's any chance that..." Dave trailed off, stopping dead in the hall. Blaine stopped as well. "If there's any chance that they can... y'know, accept me..."

Blaine cocked his head with an expression that actually resembled sympathy. "They're your parents," he said quietly. "They should love you because you're their son, not because you're exactly what they want you to be."

"Yeah," Dave said softly. "I know. But..."

"But they're still your parents. The same people who told you they'd love you no matter what. And when they don't..."

"Yeah," Dave repeated.

"Well..." Blaine began carefully, "I hope this whole experience with Coach Beiste taught you something about how to approach this."

Dave sucked in a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, I think it has."

* * *

 _You have to decide, Dad.  
_

"Dad."

"David."

Dave's eyes flickered over his father's shoulder, out the window of the Lima Bean. It was supposedly a neutral site, but Coach Beiste was still lingering outside, watching. And was it his imagination, or did that look like Kurt's car in the parking lot...? Did it matter either way? He wrenched his attention back to his father. "Where's Mom? Does she even know you're here?"

Paul Karofsky winced. "Not... exactly. Let's sit down." They did, at a table recently vacated. "Did... did you want something to drink or eat?"

"No. Let's just get on with this."

"Okay." His father let out a breath. "I miss you, son. We both do."

Dave crossed his arms obstinately. "That's not the problem, and you know it."

"Yes, yes, I do. Your mother and I, we've been... discussing this ever since you left home." He winced again. "At length."

"What is there to talk about?" His voice was flat, cold, even to his ears.

"I know I've asked you to compromise. I've asked the same of your mother." A small, forced smile cracked his face. "You get your stubbornness from her."

"Is that what this is to you, Dad?" Dave asked in disbelief. "Stubbornness?"

"No, that's not what I meant—"

"You think this is _easy_ for me?" he demanded. "That I _like_ living with Coach? She's great, but...! You'd rather I be like I was before? Angry at everyone and everything because I couldn't accept who I was?"

"Of course not, but—"

"No buts, Dad. There isn't any fucking _buts._ I'm _gay_. That's _it_. I've _finally_ accepted that. I went through fucking _hell_ to accept that." He leaned over the table, towards his father, desperation edging in. "Be honest with me, Dad. I really need an serious answer. Do you think there's any chance, _any_ chance, that Mom...?" Paul Karofsky's face became drawn and haggard. He stared at his son for a long moment before slowly shaking his head. Dave felt a pit open in his gut. Was he surprised? No. Did that keep him from being disappointed? Of course not.

"She... she loves you, son," Paul Karofsky said lamely.

"And that makes what she wants to do to me right?" He got no response. Dave sighed, rising from the table; it was barely noon, but he felt like he'd been awake for an entire day. For one last time, for the thousandth time since he left home, he tried to think of another way. He still couldn't come up with one. So, with taut nerves and trepidation, he took the plunge. "Kurt and Coach said there was a reason you wanted to see me. And I think they were right. I think you know what you have to do. You gotta make a choice, Dad. Her or me."

His father jumped to his feet. "David!"

"Her or me. You know that's how it's gotta be. I'll bet you've always known, but you didn't want to decide." His mouth felt bone dry, but he had to speak anyway. "Now you have to decide. Let me know when you figure it out." He turned and left, feeling his father's gaze bore into the back of his head.

He joined Coach Beiste outside. She merely nodded at him, not offering a word or a gesture — he was grateful for that. Together, they went back to Coach's car for the long drive home.

* * *

 _You have to decide, Dave.  
_

"Shit..." Dave groaned, clutching the papers and brochures and forms in his hands; he looked on the verge of throwing them up in the air. "Couldn't I just win the fucking lottery and skip college?"

Beiste chuckled, warming her hands on her coffee cup. "Sorry, kid, but I think you gotta work like the rest of us." She sat across from him. "Can you afford to go out of state?"

"Yeah. My Grandpa Murray gave me a college fund. I'll be able to get at the money no matter what happens with..." He swallowed. "With my folks."

"So what're you thinkin'? Where do you want to go?"

"Not New York," Dave said immediately, and Beiste nodded in understanding. "That'd be too... weird. And distracting. But I'm not staying in Ohio, either. I wanna go somewhere I can... I can _be_ , y'know? Austin or Seattle or maybe L.A., if I get desperate..."

"Get desperate? Why's that?"

Dave hesitated. She was about to tell him that he didn't have to say anything if he didn't want to, but he answered anyway. "My brother's there."

"Brother? You've never mentioned a brother."

"He's five years older than me. He left for college before I got into high school. He's in Southern California."

"And that's... a bad thing?"

"Yeah. No. Maybe. I dunno." He sighed. "The last time we talked was when I was having... problems. Accepting myself, I mean. We kinda... argued. I kinda told him... I hated him and that I never wanted to talk to him again."

"Why? What happened?"

"We were actually talking about about me being gay. I think he was trying to get me to tell him, and I just..." Dave slowly shook his head. "I couldn't tell him, and I got mad, like I always did."

"So he knew, even before?"

"Yeah. No idea how."

Beiste sipped at her coffee. "So you don't wanna look at Southern California because...?" She was actually getting better at all those "drawing people out" conversational techniques. She credited Emma Pillsbury and her Internet chat partners for that. She was already figuring out way to use them to get more out of her players on the field...

"Because... I can't face him again. Not after what I said to him. He never tried to contact me again after that, and I don't blame him." Dave's downcast eyes stared at his hands as he played with a pen. "He probably hates me."

"Oh, I seriously doubt that, if he cared enough to try to talk to you about it to begin with." She put down her coffee cup. "In fact... You have his number?"

Dave was instantly tense. "Yeah. Why?"

"I think you should call him."

"No. No fucking way. I can't handle hearing what he thinks about me..."

"Then tell me about your brother. What's he like?"

"Well, he's a hippie liberal..."

"Mm hmm," Beiste said knowingly. "So he doesn't have a problem with gay people."

"Oh, God, no. Just... with me."

"You two fight a lot when you were kids?"

"Oh, hell, yeah. Most all the time. But..." He frowned in thought.

"But what?"

"It got kinda... easier before he went to college. A lot, actually. He stopped picking on me all the time, he'd always come to my room, want to talk about shit. I still have no idea why..."

"Maybe that's when he figured out about you."

"Huh. Maybe."

"And maybe that means he doesn't hate you." Beiste finished her coffee and focused her full attention on Dave. "Look, I don't know much about your family, so I'm the last person who should give you advice. But from what I've heard, and what I know about people in general, I think you should talk to your brother. If nothin' else, you'd just be doing what you did with your dad: facin' your problems head-on, gettin' yourself out of the 'I don't know' limbo. If you're gonna dismiss an entire state from your college search because of one person, you might as well see where you stand with him."

"I..." Dave's grip on his pen tightened visibly. "Maybe..."

Dave's phone was on the table between them. She gently pushed it towards him. "If he starts layin' in on ya, hang up, and you'll never have to talk to him again. But at least then you'll _know_." He stared down at the phone. "I'll be right here," she said.

That did it. Those four words somehow did it. In the next instant, Dave snatched up the phone and brought its screen to life. His thumb flicked, then stopped. He stared at the phone for a second, took an audible breath, then pressed. He held his phone to his ear, his breath still held, until...

"Hey, Jack. Yeah, it's me. You heard what happened...? Yeah. It's fucked up. What? What the fuck are you apologizing to _me_ for—? Oh my god, you think you singlehandedly kept me in the closet? Man, I knew you were an arrogant fuck, but I had no idea—!" He chuckled, still sounding pained. "Look, Jack, I'm sorry... What? Because all I did was scream at you when you tried to help me, dumbass!" Dave was silent for a long moment. Beiste had no idea what he was hearing, but she could _see_ his face crumple. His lower lip started to tremble, and moisture shone in his eyes. He turned away from her, sniffling and wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. "S-shut up! I don't fucking hate you, how can you think that I—! God, you're a fucking bleeding heart." He got up from the table and began pacing the dining room. Beiste rose as well, stepping back with a smile blossoming on her face. "So what have you been doing? Bumming around on the beach smoking pot? Seriously? Hey, congratulations, man. Me? Well, I was thinking about college, and UCLA was on my list... Shut up! Just because your school's mascot is named after a fucking condom..."

How long he talked, and laughed, Beiste lost track. But as far as she was concerned, it wasn't long enough.

But then, as she told Dave later, there was always tomorrow.

* * *

 **Choke**

"You sure you don't need me here?"

 _No_. "Yes," Dave said. "I gotta hear this sooner or later, and I think it'll be easier if..." He gulped.

"Okay." Beiste touched his shoulder. "But if you need me, holler, and I'll come runnin'." All Dave could do in reply was nod, watching her retreat into the back bedroom. That, and wait.

Fortunately for him, one thing his father always was was punctual. The doorbell rang at precisely eleven o'clock, sending Dave off the couch onto his feet as if the sound had detonated a bomb under the sofa. He wiped his sweating palms on his jeans and went to the door.

Paul Karofsky stood on the other side, looking pale and nervous. Was that a good sign or not? He had no fucking clue.

His father was never one for awkward silences, thank God, so he got right to the point. "I've made my decision. And your mother... didn't like it." He inhaled deeply to get the next words out. "She's gone to visit your Uncle Reese, David. Most likely for a while."

Dave should've been happy. He knew that. He knew there wasn't any other way this whole clusterfuck could've turned out, except him being in Father Mitchell's straight camp or something. But he still felt nauseous. "Oh, God, Dad, I'm so sorry, this is all my fault..."

"No," Paul Karofsky said firmly. "No. Your mother wasn't going to budge, and it was wrong of me to try to make you be the one to give in. You were right. I had to make a choice, and I made it. I chose you." He pulled Dave into a tight embrace. Dave clutched at his father's back, not even bothering to muffle his sobs. He felt moisture soaking into the shoulder of his own shirt. "Please, David," his father said, his voice now hoarse. "Please come home. I'll protect you from whatever your mother and her family tries to pull. You don't have to go to any camp. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with you."

"Dad..." he sobbed into his father's neck.

"I know I haven't been the most supportive father about... about all this, but I'm going to try. I'm going to try my damn best if it kills me."

"Dad... Dad, I want to come home..."

"You're my son, and I love you. Nothing's going to change that, okay?"

It was long minutes before they separated. Dave could see his father's tear-streaked face attempt to school itself into a less emotional expression; he wondered if his own face was mirroring the effort. _Like father, like son_ , or so they said. "Why don't I help you pack," Paul Karofsky said. "That'll let me talk to Coach Beiste too, thank her for everything."

"Yeah. Sure." Dave stepped aside to allow his father admittance. Paul was barely over the threshold when he stopped and turned.

"David..."

"Yeah?"

"That... PFLAG group of yours... When does it meet?"

For the first time in God knew how long, Dave Karofsky felt hope.

Perhaps it was that hope that caused him to do the stupid stupid thing he did the following week. "You don't have to, you know," Kurt said to him as the two stepped into McKinley. "School's almost over."

"Yeah. That's the point. I want... I want everyone to know before it's too late. Besides..." He put on a grin he only half felt. "That also means less time to get the shit kicked out of me."

"If anyone tries..." The two whirled around to see Puck hurry up towards them. " _I'll_ kick their asses."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "He knows already?" he asked Dave.

"Yeah, actually. We've kinda been talking too." There was a moment of silence. "Shit, did I forget to tell you that?"

"David Karofsky! You've been keeping secrets!" Kurt punched Dave in the shoulder, glaring at the laugh he got in return. "And you!" He pointed directly in Puck's face; the other teenager had to jerk his head back. "Why didn't _you_ tell me?"

"Hey, I've learned when to keep my mouth shut," Puck said with a shrug and a smile.

"Now _that's_ amazing," Kurt muttered darkly. He didn't catch Puck's frown as he stalked down the hall, the two others in hot pursuit. "But seriously, Dave, if you have any doubts about doing this..."

"Are you kidding? I have doubts up to my eyeballs. But... I feel like I _need_ to, you know? Like I owe it to myself, and to you, and Coach..."

"Coach and I don't matter," Kurt said crisply. "The only thing that matters is what _you_ feel, what you're comfortable with."

"Then... Then yeah. I want to do this."

Kurt smiled, such an open beaming expression of joy that it was all Dave could do not to break down himself. "Then put it on." Dave did, and Kurt's smile grew wider, something Dave had not thought possible. "It looks good on you." Having heard that from Kurt Hummel's own lips, Dave knew then that he'd never take the fucking thing off.

"Hell, yeah." Puck gave his own thumbs up, then slapped Dave on the back. "You ready?"

"Yeah... But not really."

"We're here for you, Dave," Kurt said. "Me, Blaine, Puck... Everyone. Just don't forget that."

"I won't. Thanks."

Not many people noticed, not at first. Those who did had a pretty limited set of reactions: double takes, stares, craning their necks to follow him as much as possible, squinting to see if their eyes were betraying them.

The first people they ran across that they knew were, fortunately, fellow members of PFLAG: Finn and Rachel. The latter did the squinting thing, the former the double take. "David..." Rachel said, pointing her finger and whirling it in a circle around what she was staring at. "You do... You know what that means, right?"

"Yeah," Dave said, fingering the necklace hanging around his neck, the one with the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet metal links strung on it, bought from a website raising money for gay youth programs. "Yeah, I do."

"Oh. I see." Her eyes met his, and he did his best to meet them without flinching, no matter how much he wanted to. Finally, after a long silent moment, she nodded. "All right, then." She turned to Kurt. "I assume you had something to do with this new openness on David's part."

"Some, maybe. But most of it is on him."

"'Some'?" Dave asked in disbelief. "Kurt, if it weren't for you—"

"Dude!" Finn cried out in shock.

Rachel elbowed him in the side. "Finn! Didn't your mother teach you it's rude to stare?"

"But—!"

"I think," she said, addressing both Dave and Kurt and ignoring her sputtering boyfriend, "this would be a fruitful topic for today's PFLAG meeting, don't you?"

Rachel might be a weirdo, Dave thought, but sometimes, on some topics, she could be pretty insightful when she wanted to be. "Yes," Kurt said. "Yes, I agree."

That was, of course, the afternoon Coach Beiste had chosen to finally force the rest of the football team to attend a PFLAG meeting. She and Dave talked about this — a lot — and he finally came to the conclusion that it was going to be all over the school by lunch anyway, so might as well pull that tooth as quickly as possible. "Besides," Beiste had said, "maybe they'll learn something." Like...

"There's no such thing as a 'face of homosexuality,'" Kurt said, his eyes specifically searching out the non-glee football players (all of whom had chosen the staring reaction when it came to Dave). "The stereotype of the gay man might be of Blaine or myself, but there's also... Dave." He nodded towards his co-founder. "The stereotype of the lesbian might be of Coach Beiste's build and interests, but she's straight, and there's also... Santana."

Speaking of Santana, she'd later punch Dave in the arm and cry, "You couldn't have done this sooner? There was a time I could've used a _distraction_ , you know!" But then she'd hug him, so tightly that even the burly Dave had trouble breathing, and all was right in the world... For certain quantities of "right," anyway.

"LGBTQ people aren't stereotypes, any more than African-Americans or Jewish people are," Blaine said, taking up the narrative. Azimio Adams stirred in his chair. "They run the gamut of the human type and experience just like anyone else, and that's one of the purposes of this group: to emphasize the basic humanity of _everyone_."

"I don't expect there'll be any trouble from any of you," Coach Beiste said, looking each of her players straight in the eye, "but there might be from others. Lemme remind you: Dave is one of you. He's a Titan, and he served you well on the field. We're a _team_ , and we sure as hell are gonna _act_ like it. Seniors, I can still talk to your colleges. The rest of you, I'm gonna remember next year who steps up. Am I clear?" There were scattered mutters of "Yes, Coach." "Good. Now just remember, he ain't changed. He's still the same Dave who played with you, who showered with you without starin' at any of you even once. I expect all of us to stand strong — stand together."

Finn, Puck, and the rest of the glee club jocks all nodded in agreement as the rest listened silently. Dave wasn't sure how he felt in that moment; there were too many emotions all piling up at once like a freeway traffic jam. But when he left that meeting, he was as exhausted as he'd ever been, more than he could ever remember being after any of Coach Beiste's workouts.

Kurt texted Dave five times by the time he was home. The following evening was punctuated by a visit from Coach Beiste. "I... just wanted to see how you were doin'."

"... Okay? I guess? I mean, I don't think it's sunken in yet. It still feels like a dream..."

"Yeah, well, unless Jacob ben Israel is postin' your dreams all over the Internet, it's reality, kiddo. How's things been at school? I've been tryin' to keep my eyes open, but I can't be everywhere at once."

"Well, nobody's hassled me yet, if that's what you're asking. Not even the other guys. But that's why I waited until after football season was over."

"And your dad?"

Dave glanced over his shoulder; he could hear his father puttering about in the kitchen. "He's trying," he said. "He really is trying. He said he should be able to make the next PFLAG meeting, and Kurt said his dad wanted to sit down and have a beer with him..."

"So what's it like?" Beiste asked, "bein' out?"

"I... I'm still kinda scared. But somehow... I don't feel _as_ scared as I did before. Now that I don't have to hide or pretend anymore... Now that I don't have to watch every little fucking thing I say or do to check if it's too 'gay' or not..." He exhaled. "I've never felt so fucking free in my life."

* * *

 **Prom-a-saurus**

That feeling didn't fade one bit in the following weeks. He wore that necklace every day, everywhere he went. The reactions he got, especially in the general public, were decidedly mixed, but no one had gotten into his face about it... yet. Maybe it was because of his size; he shuddered to think of what he'd be going through if he were small and scrawny.

School was... weird. There was this simmering tension running under the surface that he could _feel_ , but nothing seemed to ever come of it. He saw stares, and he heard whispers, but that was about it. Maybe it had something to do with the glares he saw Puck and Finn and Sam and Mike throw around occasionally. Maybe his other old teammates — hell, dare he dream, maybe even Azimio? — were actually stepping up. Even if it was just because of Coach Beiste's threats, it was still _something_.

For the first time, Dave actually felt like his life was _going_ somewhere — somewhere positive. His college applications were all squared away, he was making his counseling appointments, and he actually had friends — new friends who had his back. It was at once exhilarating and awe-inducing. Why the fuck had he waited so long to be out?

Then again, every time he went into the living room and saw that family photo with himself, his father, Jack, and his mother (before his dad noticed him staring at it and took it away), he was reminded why.

He hadn't heard a single word from his mother since she left; he had a feeling that his father was handling all communications from her. He was actually surprised she hadn't tried to corner him at school or at the mall, or at least sent him a text or e-mail; he wondered what his father was saying to her.

Dave knew he shouldn't care — not with what she wanted to do. It didn't matter that it came out of love; it was still wrong and ignorant and...

He still missed her, goddammit. Some part of him likely always would.

Then there was prom. When Kurt invited him to the anti-prom party, he enthusiastically agreed, because seriously, fuck prom. Hell, even when it turned out to be hugely lame, he didn't mind; he was with Kurt, and that made anything more than tolerable. (And fuck him for his stupid fucking lingering crush; he was just lucky he managed to tamp down the puppy dog eyes when Kurt was around, or he'd really be in trouble.)

When Finn showed up and asked them all to come to the prom, Dave was one of the more reluctant ones, until Finn said, "Coach wanted me to tell you that if you wanted to come, it was safe. She made sure that write-in votes were banned, and that everyone would look out for you. And hey — some of the other guys were wondering where you were."

There was something there — Coach's concern, or maybe that "the other guys," whoever they were, actually cared enough to ask about him — that struck a chord in him. Kurt took one look at him and said, "You want to go now, don't you?" When Dave nodded, Kurt linked Blaine's arm in his and said, "Then we'll be delighted to attend." He didn't notice his boyfriend wince behind his back.

When the group entered the gym, they were immediately set upon by the other members of New Directions, the guys slapping Dave on the back and the girls giving him hugs (God, what did he ever do to deserve this?). From across the room, he saw Coach watching the crowd; she caught his eye and nodded towards him. He returned the nod, then headed for the snacks.

His peers were generally too wrapped up in their dates to give him more than a passing glance, much to his relief. He wiled away the time shooting the shit with the glee club, which was surprisingly entertaining, especially when Kurt would make a catty remark about a fellow student's couture. When Coach Sylvester announced that last year's prom royalty would present the crowns for this year's, his heart seized in panic, until he saw her glare at the assemblage under the harsh lights, as if _daring_ them, _begging_ them, to make trouble. That, and Kurt's presence oh so near him, that gave him the courage to step up onto that stage, into those spotlights.

He and Kurt crowned Finn and Quinn without incident, though they were as surprised as anyone when Quinn made sure that it was Rachel that ended up in his arms — and even more surprised when, instead of the music striking up, the room heard Sue Sylvester's voice.

"And last year's prom court will be joining them on the dance floor."

Dave's spine jolted. What the fuck?! God, how could she do something like this to him? From the gape of outrage on Coach's face in the back of the room, it seemed she was thinking the same. But besides the stubborn set of Sylvester's face, there was _something_ else there, something he couldn't define, or even put a name to. Whatever it was, he was somehow sure that she had other motives, deeper motives, than humiliating him or Kurt in public.

He turned to Kurt; his friend (though God, he was probably being presumptuous, thinking of Kurt as a friend; he was pretty sure Kurt wouldn't exactly put that label on _him —_ not that that ever was, or ever would be, a topic of conversation) was looking at Sylvester with his own odd expression. Perhaps he saw whatever it was Dave did; he wondered if he knew any better what it was. Dave saw Kurt's eyes find Blaine in the audience; Blaine nodded, just a little, though with obvious and understandable reluctance.

By now, everyone, not just Sylvester, was staring at them expectantly. The spotlight tracked them as they descended from the stage; Dave had a remarkable feeling of deja vu. It seemed to take years for them to reach the floor, to get into position next to Finn and Rachel. The two young men faced each other. Neither moved.

Finally, Kurt sighed. "Dave... I know this is awkward..."

"You ain't kidding," he muttered.

"... But we're here, and we're friends..." _Huh._ "... So how about we show these people that they haven't beaten us down? Besides, you owe me a dance." He bowed. "My king."

Dave laughed. "O-okay... If you're sure, and Blaine doesn't mind..."

"He doesn't." Kurt was the one to reach out first, one hand on Dave's shoulder, the other on his side. He stiffened — though luckily, not _there_ ; thank God for nerves. "Shall we?"

Dave nodded; he couldn't _say_ anything. He mirrored Kurt's hand placement, even as he was stunned that his limbs actually obeyed his mental commands, and the music began.

 _Watching every motion_  
 _In my foolish lover's game..._

Dave had danced before — last year, with Santana, in fact — but it didn't feel anything like _this_ , like every inch of skin that was touching Kurt's clothing was on fire. They didn't so much "dance" as "simultaneously turn while shifting weight from one foot to another," but it was a relief to Dave that Kurt seemed to be as tense and nervous as he was. It was a distraction from the thoughts and emotions being crammed into his brain and oh God was the song not _over_ already? Was it going to go on _forever_?

"Dave." The word snapped at him like a whip crack — not from any actual vocal force behind it (for it was actually soft and gentle), but from his own whirling thoughts. "You don't have to freak out. I'm fine. It's okay."

 _Is it?_ Not that he would ever dare say that aloud, ever.

"I meant what I said before: we _are_ friends," he said, leaving Dave to wonder if he was a goddamn mind reader or something (oh fuck, he prayed not). "I know things are still a little... rough between us..."

"I meant what I told you before too. I'll get over it, I swear. You can't do anything that would make me uncomfortable. I know you love Blaine, and I'm glad he makes you happy." God, when did he get a case of verbal diarrhea? He just couldn't fucking _stop_. "You've done so much for me, you're one of the best friends I've ever had, and it'd kill me if I _ever_ made you uncomfortable..."

"And my point is, you're not. It's pretty clear to me the kind of effort you're making — the effort you've been making since last year — and I appreciate it. I think you respect my boundaries..." _Wish I did from the start_ , Dave thought ruefully. "... And what my feelings actually are, and I appreciate that too. So, to quote Finn, 'Chill, dude.'"

Dave laughed. "Thanks, Kurt." His voice lowered. "Seriously, thanks. For... for _everything_."

"You're welcome, Dave."

Mercifully, the song ended. The two separated, and joined in the applause for Quinn and Santana. Another song began, this one up-tempo — disco, from the sound of it. Kurt went to rejoin Blaine, and Dave was about to leave the dance floor when he saw something that stirred an impulse.

Setting his shoulders, he strode straight for Shannon Beiste. She raised an eyebrow as he approached. "Hey, Coach," he said.

"Dave. Glad you could make it."

"Yeah. You wanna dance?"

Her mouth dropped open. "What?"

"I said, did you wanna dance?" He cocked his head towards the dance floor. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

He supposed that if circumstances were slightly different, if _they_ were slightly different, she would've refused, for fear of how it'd look to the rest of the school. But given their "relationship", and that he was out-if-not-100%-proud, and the laughter already washing over them from the dance floor... She grinned. "It'd be my pleasure."

They didn't even touch once they got started — they didn't need to. They goofed off and struck _Saturday Night Fever_ -esque poses and laughed their asses off.

Whenever Dave Karofsky looked back on high school, this would be the prom night he'd always remember — not the one filled with tension and humiliation and suffocating fear, but the one in which he arrived as an openly gay teenager, danced with friends, and had the time of his fucking life.

* * *

 **Nationals**

"Hey, Dave!" Coach Beiste's image waved to him from his computer screen. She appeared to be in a hotel lobby; he could hear entwining rumblings of conversation in the background, and people with wheeled suitcases passed back and forth behind her.

"Hey! How was the trip to Chicago?"

Beiste groaned. "Long. But we're here at the hotel now, so I thought I'd open up Skype and give ya a call."

"Thanks, I really appreciate it."

"So, you heard from any of your schools yet?"

"A couple. I didn't get into Stanford, of course, but I got accepted at the University of Washington and UT Austin."

"And UCLA?"

"Nothing yet." Dave sighed. "I just wish I knew what was gonna happen."

Beiste's mien turned serious. "With college?"

"With everything. I mean, I know what I want to study, but what am I gonna do with the degree? And wherever I go, it'll be the first time I've lived anywhere but Ohio. Lima may be a hellhole, but at least I know what to expect. Out there..." He waved distantly at nothing in particular, at "out there."

"Dave, listen to me. You've been through a lot tougher than a move out of state and come out of it with yer soul intact. You got your dad, right?"

"Yeah..." At least he believed it more and more every day, each time they talked about his feelings towards guys, each time he caught his dad talking on the phone with Burt Hummel or reading LGBT websites or attending PFLAG meetings. Things were still a little fragile between them, with guilt weighing heavily on both sides, but... It was getting better. He couldn't deny that.

"You got your friends. You got me. Even if we're not in the same room, you got us. Hell, this is proof, right?" She smiled at him through the Internet. "You'll be fine, kid."

"Thanks, Coach," he said.

"You're wel— Oh, hey, there's some people here who wanna say hi." The image blurred for a moment before Kurt's face filled the window. Dave's stomach did flip-flops.

"Hey, Dave!"

"Hey, Kurt! You ready to knock 'em dead at Nationals?"

"You know it. You'd better have a hell of a victory party waiting for us when we return!" He looked to his left. "Blaine, it's Dave." He passed the computer on, and Blaine appeared. There was still a _lot_ of tension remaining there, the source of most of it obvious, but Dave had to admit, Blaine _did_ help when it counted. There was no way he couldn't be grateful for that, no matter what happened.

"Hi, Dave."

"Hey. You gonna win this weekend?"

"Of course." Blaine's smile was confident and charming; for not the first time, Dave could at least see what Kurt saw in him. "Puck wants to say hello. Actually, he's making huge gestures and grabbing for the laptop. Okay, okay, already!" The image blurred again, and Noah Puckerman did indeed appear.

"Dave, my man! Wish you could watch us kick major ass!"

"Yeah, me too. But I'm sure I'll see it all over YouTube on Sunday."

"You know it! We're gonna make _history_ , dude! Go New D!" he roared; Dave could make out laughter and cheers in the background. The picture jiggled, and Coach Beiste reappeared.

"We gotta go get settled in. We'll talk to ya soon, Dave."

"See you, Coach." Dave chuckled, shaking his head as he quit Skype.

He did indeed have a "hell of a victory party" waiting when New Directions returned. As the confetti fell over the glee club to the raucous applause of the student body, Dave couldn't help but share in the happiness of New Directions — in the entire school.

Seeing Kurt triumphant, radiating joy and pride, he felt like he'd won something too.

* * *

 **Goodbye**

"California, huh?" Kurt said, sipping delicately at a Dixie cup.

It was the last PFLAG meeting of the school year, so they were going out with a bang, with punch and vegan cookies and chips and other assorted treats. The entirety of both glee club and football team were in attendance (though the latter mostly for the snacks, but attendance was attendance — besides, they'd kept their word to not harass Dave, so what the hell), plus the various other members not part of either group. The juniors, especially Artie and Sam, promised that PFLAG would be back and as strong as ever next year, reassuring Kurt and Dave that it was in good hands.

Maybe, just maybe, he, Dave Karofsky, had done something to make a positive impact on McKinley High — not just for this year, but for years to come. It was a rather humbling thought.

"Yeah," Dave replied. His eyes flickered towards a back corner, where his father and Kurt's were deep in conversation. "I got accepted to UCLA. I'm probably going to move near the end of summer, live with my brother until the dorms open, so I can get used to the place. I'm even thinking of making it a road trip with Puck."

Kurt nodded with a smile. "Then we'll have to be sure to make the most of the time we have left. All of us."

"Yeah." Kurt's smile... It was a little rickety, a little forced. He knew exactly why. "Kurt, I'm really sorry about NYADA..."

Kurt waved him off. "I don't want to be a downer..."

"No, it's your dream, and I think it's a good one. I just... I really hope you go to New York anyway. They were idiots not to accept you, and I don't think you wanna be stuck here in Lima any more than I do." Dave finished off his punch. "I'm sure Blaine's already been telling you all this..."

Kurt's smile grew even more fragile. "Yeah..." he said in a weak voice.

"But if you've taught me one thing, it's that you gotta keep on reaching for what you want. If you really want to hit it big on Broadway, you'll find a way, just as long as you don't give up. If there's a way to do it here, that's great, but..." He felt his face melt into a tender expression that he really really _really_ hoped was still appropriate for a friend. "I think New York's the place for you." Kurt's face screwed up in thought, so he went for the kill. "Let me put it this way, then: if you don't, I'll kick your ass."

Kurt barked a laugh. "Once a bully, always a bully!"

Dave joined in the laughter. "You got me."

When it died down, Kurt's smile was still there, but it was stronger, more genuine. "Thanks, Dave. I just wish I could've been a better friend..."

"Are you kidding? You've done more for me than practically anyone else in my life." Was it just his imagination, or did Azimio, who standing nearby, stiffen just then? They hadn't talked at all since sophomore year, a fact that was still tinged with regret even as he got used to it. Dave wondered if there was anything he could've done, if he should've made more of an effort with his old friend... But it was too late now. Maybe that was for the best. "If I lived a hundred years, I could never repay everything you've done for me..."

"You're an out gay man. You're graduating high school, going to college, and you — at least to me — seem happier than you've ever been before. That's all the repayment I need."

It was all Dave could do to not hug Kurt silly right then and there, in front of everyone and Blaine. As it was, he just offered Kurt the last cookie on his plate, which was happily accepted.

* * *

Graduation was always a bittersweet time for Shannon Beiste. Seeing her boys grow into men and move on to the adult world, taking with them the lessons she'd imparted... It was a proud but wistful moment in normal times. But this class, the graduating class of 2012... This was no normal class.

She applauded when Dave Karofsky received his diploma, applauded until her palms ached. She cheered with the rest of the crowd as red caps flew every which way in the air. She fought her way through the throngs to approach the cluster of glee club/PFLAG members who were hugging and crying and hugging some more. Paul Karofsky was already there, congratulating his son. Beiste thought she caught a glimpse of Debra Karofsky somewhere in the multitudes earlier, but if so, she wasn't approaching her son. Good decision on her part.

Snatches of conversation came into sharper focus as she drew closer; Dave was talking to Kurt.

"... on, Kurt, we still have most of the summer."

"I know, I know, but I want to make sure we have all our ducks in a row. We'll be living on opposite coasts, after all! If we establish a Skype schedule now, it'll be much easier on both of us in the long run. I've already started talking with Blaine about—"

"Hey!" Beiste caught Dave up in a hug, one that was tightly returned. Over Dave's shoulder, she saw Kurt smile and quietly retreat. "Congratulations, Dave," she said once they separated.

"Thanks, Coach." His face turned serious. "Really. Thanks for... for everything. I have no fucking clue where I'd be now if you hadn't... If you hadn't cared..."

It was easier than Beiste thought to hold back the tears, even though they were still there. "Hey, it was my responsibility and my pleasure. I hope I did enough..."

Dave shook his head with a smile. "I look at my life now, and compared to how it could've been — me alone and in the closet and miserable... It may not be perfect, but it's good. It's really good. And it's all thanks to you."

"Well, it's not like you haven't done a lot for me. You helped me get a championship! And you..." She wiped at the tears forming in her eyes. "And you reminded me who I really am." _And who I could still be_. She had no idea why her mind added that, but it did. But that was to ponder another time.

"You did the same for me, so we're even."

"I guess so." They were silent then, not even hearing the talk and laughter around them. "You better keep in touch, Dave. I'm expectin' to hear all kinds of great things goin' on in your life in California."

"Promise. I'll be chattier than a mule in a hoosegow."

Beiste frowned. "That made _no_ sense. You makin' fun of me, kid?"

Dave roared with laughter, a deep, rich sound that lightened Beiste's heart just hearing. "Never, Coach. I just..." The smile fled, and the tears returned. "I..."

"I know, Dave," she said as she once again took her student — her former student — in her arms. "I know."

The graduation ceremony was over.

Now the future, bright and scary and limitless in its potential, could begin.


End file.
